Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Time.

Space.

Reality.

It’s more than a linear path. It’s a prism of endless possibility, where a single choice can branch out into infinite realities, creating alternate worlds from the ones you know.

I am the Watcher. I am your guide through these vast new realities. Follow me and ponder the question…. “What If?”

The City of New York, on the planet Earth, is often quoted as the ‘City That Never Sleeps’. However, what many people often ignore is a far more intriguing element of New York’s history.

2012, the entire city is pulled into disarray, as an Alien Invasion is fought by the newly assembled team called “The Avengers”. Iron Man, Captain America, Hulk, Thor, Black Widow and Hawkeye battle the Chiatauri and, in doing so, expose a new threat to the world: superpowers.

Little did they know, this very act of heroism would throw the entire world into a series of questions and would ultimately change the lives of many enhance individuals.

Claire Temple would find her own life transformed by such individuals when she found Matt Murdock (lawyer by day, vigilante by night) bloodied and bruised in a dumpster, consequently leading her down a route to helping “The Defenders”.

However, the infinite possibilities of time suggest that in some universes, this did not happen. In fact, in this specific universe, the events that drew Claire to that dumpster never happened and instead, a man by the name of Kilgrave found him in that alleyway.

***

Matt Murdock was used to the darkness of his mask. Sometimes he faintly caught glimpses of light breaking through the mask, though to him even these spectres of lights were firey and hellish sights. Without the mask, the world itself was on fire. A horrid red plagued the world, so the absence of light from underneath the mask brought him comfort.

However, the situation he had found himself was less comforting. Each breath was agonising and each movement shot a sharp pain through his body, jolting him with sheer agony with the slightest move of his arm. Around him was a pungent smell of trash, as black bags filled with food waste and packaging surrounded him – and if Matt’s enhanced senses worked as well as they generally did, he could swear there was a dead animal somewhere.

Blood slowly poured out from every wound. Drips of his blood even splashed against the puddled floor, each droplet resonating in his ear. Even from within the dumpster, he could still sense the world outside. Distant cars and sirens bellowed through the air. A child screaming in an apartment on the second floor. A man regretting his dinner choice from the night before was four floors high and a woman talked to her mother on the phone as she passed the alleyway.

Eventually, Matt mustered up the strength to push open the lid of the dumpster. Exerting that much effort, however, was enough to provoke him into an agonised yelp as he squeezed out between the metal dumpster and the lid. Flopping to the ground, like a fish out of water, Matt curled up slightly. Gushes of blood fell out from a wound in his side, while he felt the three broken ribs shatter more.

Anxiously gasping for air, Matt re-examined his surroundings. He couldn’t quite catch onto anything new, people still continued their lives in their homes – completely oblivious to the blind man’s pursuits in the alley beside them.

One man wasn’t as oblivious, however. Matt’s ears quickly tuned into the noise of the man, his gradual footsteps echoing throughout the alley his smart leather shoes clacked against the stone ground. Puddles splashed upwards, dampening the bottom of his suit, which Matt could just about hear. Despite the sight of a bloodied dying masked man in an alleyway, amidst a city of death and gang wars, this man’s heartbeat was calm. A slight flicker indicated his intrigue, but nothing to indicate the terror you’d quite expect from a normal bystander.

“Vigilantes.” The man sighed, peering down in disapproval. Even without Matt’s heightened senses, the British accent in the man’s voice as he uttered the one word was clear. Ruffling of clothes caught Matt’s ears as the man squatted down. “To think, a couple ‘superheroes' save the world from an alien invasion and this is what comes out of it? Tell me, what’s your name?”

Matt felt a strange instinct surge through him. Usually, he was hesitant on giving any information about himself; knowing full well from his education in law that he was breaking several laws. However, as the man asked the simple question to Matt, he felt himself comply in telling him. “Matt Murdock.” He answered, instantly regretting it as the words escaped his mouth.

“Rings a bell…” The man muttered, his heart beating slightly as his mind raced to recall where he’d come across that name before. “Now tell me, how did you end up like this? What’s your power?” Once again, the moment that the British man’s words were uttered, Matt felt himself answer. As though every resistance and aspect of secrecy that lingered in his mind was bypassed. Superseded by an innate need to answer.

“An accident when I was younger blinded me, but my other senses are enhanced. I used it to track down a boy, stolen by a human trafficking ring run by the Russians. But it was a setup and I barely escaped with my life.” Finally releasing the explanation as to how he’d wound up in an alleyway bleeding to death, he took a deep breath – one that brought him a moment of solace from the agonising pain that plagued his body.

Unbeknownst to Matt, the British man was smiling with great intrigue. Observing his cuts and bruises, watching as blood trickled down his face and stained the material of his black clothes. Fascination overruled the man, who admired Matt’s state considering the fact he was blind.

“I’ll call an ambulance, don’t move.” While the man sought to genuinely help the blind man, Matt found himself unable to move. Despite every desire to move, to jump up and yank the phone from the man’s hand, he simply couldn’t.

“No hospitals – they can’t know tha-”

“Just… be quiet for a minute.” The man seemed hesitant as he spoke, almost cautious with the words he uttered. Matt listened immediately. His words made no sound as he spoke them out, instead finding himself mute. Bound by the man’s orders and muted by another strange spell of the man, Matt was unable to resist the calling of the ambulance.

His ears pricked at the sound of the British man’s hurried gathering of information, sounding more anxious and terrified than he was (which Matt could tell from the faster beating of his heart). Eventually, after 60 seconds had passed, Matt found himself able to talk.

“Stop,” He uttered, pained as he poured effort into talking. “I said no hospitals.”

“Be quick, he’s almost bleeding out.” The man hung up the phone, before turning back to Matt. His eyes staring down at him intrigued for a moment. Matt’s body shook gently, as he made every attempt to resist the man’s order to stay still. Something was capable of overriding his thoughts, binding him down to the ground like witchcraft. The man rolled his eyes. “You can move now.”

Matt took a gasp of air as he felt his body returned to his will. Twitching his fingers and bending his knees, control over his own body was restored. Although, as Matt attempted to push himself up, it wasn’t the agonising pain surging through his body nor another order by the British man who stood by him, which kept him close to the ground. In fact, Matt’s sudden halt was of his own will.

His ears focused on the world around them, shifting between people in their homes to a singular man. With a Russian accent and an overpowering cologne, this man hurriedly followed towards the alleyway.

“We need to get out of here.” Matt muttered, pushing himself up from the ground with a screech of agony. The creaking from the man’s neck and the ruffling of his clothes indicated he had turned his head, now facing the end of the alleyway intrigued for a moment. His heart didn't beat any faster than usual, instead, he seemed surprisingly calm as he presumably caught sight of the Russian man that had hunted him down.

It seemed to take the Russian man a moment to figure out what was happening, as the British man’s tall and lanky stature, shrouded underneath a vividly purple suit, covered the masked man. Although with a couple of steps forward, the Russian saw the vigilante. Darkness covered him, as he struggled to stand.

Matt and the British man were both advantaged in their own unique ways. Plunging his hand down to a holster on his side, the Russian retrieved a thick black pistol. Matt was able to hear the sudden strike downwards, hearing the gun being pulled up through the air and the man’s racing heartbeat – meanwhile the British man watched it unfold, without a single flicker in his heartbeat.

“Stop it!” He yelled, his voice echoing throughout the alleyway as he approached. He glanced curiously, watching as the man still held out the pistol with an index finger hesitant to fire under the man’s instruction. “Is this one of the Russians you were talking about? One of the ones trafficking humans?” The British man questioned, glancing back to Matt.

“Yes- yes he is.” Weakly, Matt nodded his head, now gearing his head towards the approaching sirens.

“Go to the ambulance, Matt, I’ll be with you in a second.” The British man ordered, turning his head back around to the masked vigilante. For a moment, it almost seemed as though Matt was resisting. Rejecting his order, which was an incredibly rare occurrence. However, Matt’s hesitance promptly faded as he staggered through the alleyway, hearing the sirens grow closer.

“No, he can’t get away!” The Russian yelled, turning back around to Matt. His index finger still sat away from the trigger. And despite every impulse to shoot something stopped him.

“No, no, no.” The British man chuckled, quickly calling for the Russian man’s attention. “This masked bloke tells me you’re running a human trafficking ring. Tell me, where’s the boy he’s looking for?”

Matt stopped and turned around, overriding the need to get to the ambulance for a minute. He was astounded by the British man’s confidence, almost dumbfounded how the British man had even considered such an attempt to gauge information would work.

To his surprise, however, the Russian promptly answered. “Underneath Troika Restaurant. 11^th and 44^th.” He instantly regretted revealing the truth as he blurted out the answer, confused by himself as to why he had in the first place.

“Thank you.” The British man’s voice sounded far more chilling than grateful. In fact, any sense of gratitude quickly diminished as a darker tone of his voice sounded. “Now jump in that dumpster and suffocate yourself with a bag. If you don’t die within the next minute, shoot yourself until you do.” The delivery of the instruction was uttered with a sense of pure evil. Mat listened as his heartbeat once again stayed the same. Unmoved by the consequences of his instruction, the British man turned back around to Matt, who slowly stumbled out from the alleyway and towards the screeching sirens of an incoming ambulance.

Hesitance grew within Matt. With each step he urged himself to reject compliance, knowing the danger it would pose to his life beyond vigilantism. Hearing the doors to the ambulance abruptly open, and the hurried footsteps of two paramedics, Matt came to a halt.

Now the British man’s order faded. He considered his chances of escape, fleeing the street and ensuring he’d never be caught – except, he didn’t. Almost prompting him to let out a sigh of relief, Matt listened as the British man approached the paramedics. Initially, he expected a brief explanation as to what had happened, but instead, he crafted a new instruction.

“You will help this man here and you will not tell anybody about it. You will not log him into your systems and you will ensure nobody asks questions. If you reveal anything about this man, even the smallest detail, I want you to get one of your scalpels and cut your tongue out. Understood?”

Matt listened, the silence in their voices was accompanied by a nodding of their head before they ushered him inside. “Who are you?” Matt questioned, terrified but intrigued by the British man who had saved his life.

“Kilgrave.” The man stated, a malicious tone lining his British accent. He watched as the three entered the ambulance, the first paramedic hurrying to the driver's seat while the second attended to Matt’s wounds. The bangs of metal doors bellowed throughout the street, momentarily masking a gunshot from the nearest dumpster.

***

While this interaction seems improbable in the original timeline you are aware of, this universe saw the enemy of Jessica Jones aid Matt Murdock in escaping a near-death experience. But you may wonder, what exactly brought Kilgrave here?

Kilgrave believed Jessica truly loved him, but her ability to disobey his actions and her abandonment of him as he was hit by a bus crash many fateful nights ago, left him far more unhinged than he ever was before. He returned to New York with a new passion, regain control over the woman he loved, at any cost.

In the timeline that you know, Kilgrave uses Hope Shlottman to attract Jessica’s attention towards him, acting as the first few steps towards his downfall. In this reality, however, it is Matt Murdock that would be this key, but the events in Matt’s own life would change drastically too.

Matt’s wounds are attended to. His medical aid is kept secret and is promptly discharged by himself – now with one destination in mind.

***

Troika Restaurant, 11^th and 44^th, was nothing of particular interest for Matt. Surrounding him was an array of smells. From what he could make out, the restaurant was of Italian cuisine and the overwhelming and hunger-inducing smells that swirled around him were enough to confuse his sense for a moment. Relying in his hearing, Matt proceeded down a few small stairs in the alleyway next to the restaurant. Sounds of muffled movements from inside hit his ears, while droplets of rain splashed against the ground and the buzzing of the lights inside irritated his ears. Pulling open the door, Matt could hear far more clearly, as the distraction of the food confused his senses back on the inside.

Masked, Matt continued inside. Switching off the lights, he ensured there were no more surprises. One heartbeat raced with absolute terror, accompanied by another steady heartbeat. Calmed, seemingly by the corpses left around the building (which Matt could just about sense through the smell of gunpowder and blood fused in the air).

Carefully, Matt treaded through the hallway. Three doors rested open, creaking slightly as they clung on by the hinges in the door. Two doors led to a room filled with dead bodies, while the third was home to the two heartbeats. Approaching cautiously, Matt smelt a familiar smell – which he promptly recalled to be Kilgrave from earlier that evening – resting inside the room.

The second heartbeat, pounding faster and harder at the terrifying sight of the black-masked man, was of a little boy.

“Ah, Matt!” Kilgrave eagerly exclaimed, grinning as he pushed himself to his feet. “I wondered when you would show up. I sorted everything out for you, consider it my side of the bargain.”

“Your side of what bargain?” Matt asked, confused for a moment. His head tilted as he stood patiently, waiting for an answer.

Kilgrave smirked as he approached Matt, before turning around to the boy. “Go.” He ordered, before watching as the young boy hurried out of the room. His footsteps echoing throughout the small concrete corridor, ringing in Matt’s ears as he did so. Kilgrave took a moment, waiting for the boy to leave, before turning back to the masked man he was fortunate to find. “There’s a woman I’m looking for, her name’s Jessica Jones. She did things and I need to find her.”

“What kind of things?” Cautiously, Matt listened to his heartbeat. Something was new, a slight spike at the thought of her – which was either fear or love, intriguing him as he waited for an answer.

“She killed a woman and then left me for dead in a bus crash,” Kilgrave admitted. Matt could hear his heartbeat steady, indicating the truth in his statement. “I thought we could help each other – you want to find the source of this human trafficking ring and I want to find Jessica. An alliance of sorts – superhero and sidekick.”

Splattered across Matt’s face was an amused smile, prompted by the idea of an alliance with a man who seemed capable of making anybody do his bidding. Silence fell between the pair as they considered the idea.

Matt waited patiently, observing everything around him. Every noise and heartbeat, the distant sirens resonating through the streets and down. Droplets from faulty pipes and buzzing of cheap electric lights. Gas passing through pipes and sounds from the kitchen above. Damp residue from the basement surrounded them, while a horrid stench of body odour lingered.

Considering his line of work, Matt’s caution was understandable. He knew the law well, studied it for years, and was fully away that his night-time antics counteracted countless laws. Aligning himself with Kilgrave appeared to have advantages and disadvantages, but the looming presence of crime and terror in Hells Kitchen was a cause worth risking his life for.

“Give it some thought,” Kilgrave stated, unintentionally pressing the issue deeper into his mind. Matt’s ears pricked at the sound of his footsteps wandering out from the room. “In the meantime, I’ll pull in some favours for an outfit – if we’re going to help each other, I don’t want to be finding you half-dead in an alleyway again.”

***

Despite Matt’s interaction the night prior, the morning that followed had a calming gentleness to it. The world around him filled with life. Life unaware of the lurking horrors of their streets. The crime and the abhorrent acts people were willing to inflict. With the help of Kilgrave, he had fortunately helped solve one crime, but he knew there were hundreds of others still happening.

Something bugged Matt. Conflict brew inside him, tension with each aspect of his mind. Not only were his moral and legal arguments rumbling through his mind, as he fought the rage that seeped into his actions as the masked vigilante, but now he questioned the British man. His intentions seemed just and reasonable, and he knew they could help each other.

However, Kilgrave was more powerful than any other ally Matt could consider. The world had witnessed gods and heroes born from genetic modifications. Organisations sat at every corner of the world, creating super soldiers and spies capable of merciless killing. Yet, Kilgrave was something else. Enhanced and possibly unhinged, Kilgrave would either be the strongest hero or the cruellest dictator that the world could see.

An alliance with such a man was possibly suicide.

“You’re Jack Murdock’s kid, aren’t you?” Sounded a voice suddenly, plunging Matt back into the real world. Cars and voices and birds rung around him. Petrol and trashcans filled his nose. There was a cold nip in the air, but still, a glistening sun that failed to catch him under the shade of a nearby swaying tree. Approaching him was a priest, whose cologne was weakly applied but still picked up by Matt.

Images of Jack Murdock resonated through Matt’s mind. Faint memories of his few years of vision still remained, but it was his voice and smell that he still clutched onto.

Matt noticed the approaching footsteps of the priest, unnerving him as he realised the priest he’d confessed his dealings of the night to, knew his identity. “It’s all right,” He promptly assured, noticing the blind man was almost ready to pounce from his seat, “Seal of Confession. Anything you said during the sacrament of penance stays between us. You could have killed ten people, I couldn’t tell anyone.” There was a slither of a joke in his voice, though a tone of seriousness still remained.

“That seem fair to you?” Matt was quick in replying. Even though his mind rang with the moral questioning of his actions, with his impatience with the legal system yet admiration for its moral duty conflicting consistently, he always remained intrigued by the thoughts of others.

“Is what it is.” With a quiet sigh, Matt could sense his inner conflict. Devotion to god conflicting with his duty as a citizen. A battle that raged within his heart for decades.

“I have to get to work.”

“Yeah, me too.” The priest promptly replied, noticing in the corner of his eye as Matt began to get up. Clasping his stick, and pushing himself to his feet, Matt seemed anxious to get away, terrified of the notion somebody knew his identity. “Wouldn’t mind a cup of coffee first, though. Chamber of commerce donated one of those… fancy espresso machines for meetings and stuff. I make a heck of a latte if you’re interested.”

“Some other time, maybe.” There was a brief moment of consideration in Matt’s mind, before rejecting the proposal altogether. Now stood on his feet, Matt began to turn around, though the following words from the priest brought him to a halt.

“Seemed you had a lot on your mind, last time you were here. Sure, you don’t want that latte?” The man considered the proposition once again, before finding the inner conflict over Kilgrave raging inside his heart. A servant to God could help him, he considered, and the added confidentiality of the seal of confession comforted him.

“You know what, sure thing father,” Matt stated, reassuring himself that he could seek helpful advice from the priest.

Turning back around, he followed him back inside. He could hear the distant chatter of another priest and an elderly couple. Coins shifted from the collection baskets while two boys practised for the choir. There was a particular smell to the church and their footsteps banging against the cold stone ground echoed throughout the hall.

Eventually, Matt followed the priest into the back room. A smell of coffee rested on the room, a smell ingrained in the fibres of the carpet and stuck to the paper cups dropped in the bin.

“What’s on your mind?” The priest asked, handing over a latte to Matt that he’d made. Matt, keeping up the pretence that he was unaware of his surroundings, flapped his hand around for a seat, before sitting down and staring in the priest's direction.

Every aspect of Matt’s caution and reservedness kicked in instantly as the priest sat down with him. Screaming in his mind was a voice, rejecting any idea of revealing the truth. Although, Matt resisted.

“Do you believe the devil can walk amongst us, father?” His question took the priest by surprise for a moment, as he reeled back in shock slightly.

“The Devil may take many forms, so it’s not far fetched to consider him amongst us. Why do you ask?”

“I met a man last night, he saved my life. He offered to help me take down the crime of this city, but he has a power – the ability to make anyone do anything he wants.” Matt replayed the previous night in his mind again, for a moment recalling the orders given to him. Instructions he didn’t wish to comply with, yet felt himself following anyway.

Curious, the priest waited for more information. His eyes staring back at Matt sceptically. “Did he-” The priest stopped himself, not quite able to find the words to ponder further on the extraordinary circumstance.

“Control me? Only to confess who I was and to go the hospital. But he helped me – he found a kid that was being trafficked and somehow managed to get him out safely without a fight. I know his help would make my fight so much easier… but it’s a man who could rob a bank with a simple request, fight any legal battle with his own words and no lawyer. A man like him, can’t be trusted, can he?”

Matt took a sip of his latte as he waited for a reply. He felt the tip of his tongue burn slightly, while his ears listened to every noise around him. The tapping of the priest's fingers on his cups, the choir practice now growing with two new children.

“Even if this man isn’t the devil, your scepticism likely means he has sin in his heart that is strong enough to provoke that thought. You already seem conflicted, Matthew, and a man like him, with his powers, would only drag you into the darkness.”

The Priest could sense Matt’s disappointment. It was no surprise that the priest, a man who had devoted his life to the divine power of one righteous god, would be rejecting of a man who walked the earth with powers unheard of before – but Matt had held out hope, foolish probably, but hope nonetheless.

“What if he’s a means to an end?”

“Nobody should entertain the devil, not even if you’re doing good. There’s no doubting that this man would benefit your cause greatly, but the devil always comes bearing gifts. Temptations are his thing, Matthew, but never give in.”

***

Father Paul Lantom gave Matt Murdock wise advice – even if it was founded on a belief that isn’t quite true. However, this timeline had changed far too much already to steer Kilgrave off course. The British man, who paraded around the streets of New York City in an obnoxious purple suit, had his eyes set on the soon-to-be Devil of Hell’s Kitchen.

Of course, some aspects of this timeline were not quite as changed yet. James Wesley, the right-hand man to the Kingpin: Wilson Fisk, was still set to take down the legal company ‘Nelson and Murdock’ who had aided Karen Page’s efforts in fighting Union Allied. Now, he was bringing a challenging case to them, one they had no hope of winning.

Except, Matt’s senses were not only heightened around him. Matt could sense something off – something dark and mysterious, untrustworthy. And as Matt followed Mr Wesley, frustrated at Foggy’s beguiled reaction to thousands of dollars, he was met with a new aspect of the timeline.

***

“I’ll be honest, I didn’t trust him all too much either.” Commented a familiar British voice. Matt could smell the man’s cologne and heard his tapping leather shoes clacking against the concrete ground. He smelt Karen’s perfume lingering on his clothes, confusing him for a moment as he turned his head back to Kilgrave.

“I can’t help but feel everything’s connected… Human trafficking ring by the Russians, while this Union Allied attack with Karen happens… only for a mysterious lawyer pops up…”

“I could help, Matt. If you agree to my offer.” Kilgrave stated, resisting the temptation to force Matt into complying yo him. “But I get it. Devout Catholic meets enhanced man. You probably think I’m the devil or some kind of demon, but I promise you I’m not. I know you can’t see me, but rest assured I’m not some sort of red or purple evil spirit. I want to help you.”

Matt sighed, once again feeling incredibly tempted by the very notion. He took a deep sigh, shrugging off the idea as he turned back to Kilgrave. “I don’t think I can work with you, Kilgrave. I’m sorry.”

Chapter Text

As this timeline only begins to branch off from the universe you are used to, many of its events so early on are recognisable to you. As Matt Murdock and Foggy Nelson take on the case offered by the suspicious Mr Wesley, they are met with Mr Healy, a man accused of violently murdering a man with a bowling ball.

As Matt and Foggy begin to prepare their case for the trial, Ben Urich attempts to investigate the changing scene of gang crime in New York, while Karen Page continues her struggle against Union Allied.

However, it is on the second day of Mr Healy’s trial, where this timeline once again begins its deviation from your own timeline.

***

Scattered around Matt was an abundance of noise and smells, as the busied courtroom prepared for its second day of Mr Healy’s trial. General intrigue led Matt to nosily pry to who wandered into the room, as each person carried a particular trait that he could sense. Whether it was the ruffling of the judge’s silk cloak, or the beating hearts of the convicted, something always toyed with Matt’s intrigue.

Today, Matt listened as a woman, who had been previously blackmailed during her time on the jury, was escorted out. The judge offered her reasons, although the prying eyes of the courtroom fixated on the woman as she wandered out from the courtroom. Matt’s attention, however, turned to the ticking of Mr Wesley’s wristwatch. Wesley observed frustratedly, which Matt could sense through his heartbeat and agitated breathing. Satisfaction came from the destruction of the plans of corrupt individuals.

Except, before long, the woman was replaced. The alternate juror wandered in, escorted by two guards. With a tall stance and smug smile, the man carried a particular cologne with him. It was strong and noticeable, irritating Matt’s senses from across the room. His ears also pricked to the sound of creaking leather shoots clacking against the wooden ground beneath them.

Beyond all conceivable comprehension, Kilgrave now sat amongst the jury of Healy’s trial. A man capable of making his words an order and his lies a truth to believe, now sat amongst the people who were to decide Healy’s fate.

Although, before Matt could intervene, the court fell into session. The lawyer was called up for concluding statements. Stood before the jury, anxious at the thought of Kilgrave sat amongst them, he focused his anxieties on his speech. It discussed morality and law, focusing on the sheer facts of the case. In his heart, the same heart shared with the vigilante who fought the crime he’d seen defended, he felt a burning rage against Healy.

Time felt as though it was passing incredibly slowly as Matt and Foggy awaited the results of the jury. Foggy sat quietly, twiddling his thumbs as a pile of papers sat beside him. Matt listened carefully, his ears tuned to the discussion – except, unsurprisingly, there was no discussion. Through the walls and stairwells that separated them, Matt could hear the cruel British voice dominating the room.

“I’ll be honest. This Healy guy probably killed that guy brutally – I think we all know that. I mean, that man had ‘evil’ written across his face. However, their lawyer Matt Murdock is a very close friend and I want to help him out. So, agree that it is a unanimous decision that Healy is not guilty.”

As the British voice quietened, the room erupted with a collective of voices in unison. “Healy is not guilty.”

Matt’s heart sunk. While a case won should have inspired a relief within him, edging his firm into a noticeable light, the corrupt victory wasn’t worth it. Unfortunately, for Matt, there was little opportunity to resist it.

Eventually, they were called back into the courtroom. Matt’s ears pricked at every sound that filled the room, jumping from shunned whispering from the back to the judge, as she asked the guard a question about a coffee. Two particular details about the courtroom didn’t fail to pass Matt by, as he noticed a significant absence of Kilgrave’s cologne and Wesley’s ticking wristwatch.

He stood to a halt, stepping aside as the courtroom filled up once again. Now, he analysed the building. A constipated man regretted too many coffees, while an infuriated lawyer shouted at her client. A newly trained security guard played around with his gun, while another woman hurriedly devoured a sandwich – bacon, freshly cooked from the trailer parked outside.

For a moment, there were no signs of Kilgrave nor Wesley, panicking Matt further as he turned back around. He raced towards the entrance of the courthouse, his heart beating in his own chest as he worried whether he would have to stop Kilgrave from doing something terrible.

Finally reaching the door, he caught a faint whiff of Kilgrave, before his ears caught onto his voice. It echoed slightly, resonating from underground. Another faint smell of gasoline tainted Matt’s senses, before urging him downstairs as he realised where Kilgrave had gone. Fleeing down the nearest flight of stairs, Matt leaped down the steps erratically. His ears now catching a clearer sound of Kilgrave’s voice and the ticking of Wesley’s watch.

“…assholes like you! Tell me, who do you work for?” Kilgrave’s voice was toned with a vicious sense of rage. Matt pushed open the doors, before running his cane in front of him. Wesley turned around to Matt, disappointed as he realised the only present witness to this uncalled-for assault was a blind lawyer. His heart quickened as he tried to stop himself from speaking, yet something forced him.

“Wilson Fisk.” Instinct disobeyed logic. He knew the incredible dangers of even uttering Fisk’s name and now he felt nothing but a dread seep into his heart.

“Never heard of him.” Kilgrave stated, frustration toning his British accent. “Now tell me, this Fisk – is he behind everything else too? The trafficking and the drugs and the murders and Union Allied?”

Wesley resisted for a moment, gripping his lips together as he tried to avoid speaking. Although, Matt’s attention fixated on Kilgrave for a moment, confused as he questioned how he could have known about Union Allied.

“Yes! He’s behind all of it- Murdock, help me, this crazy guy is-“

“Shut your mouth!” Kilgrave ordered, bringing Wesley’s pleading voice to silence for a moment. Turning his head towards Matt, Kilgrave smiled. He waited for a moment, while Wesley’s voice was trapped behind his lips, only making a series of struggled muffling noises.

“Kilgrave, you can’t do this.” Matt stated, wandering across the parking lot. “You can’t do any of this.”

“Oh, come on Matt. We’re getting results! Isn’t that what you want? To run that crappy law firm and bring down the crime syndicate in Hells Kitchen?” Matt sighed, failing to provide any form of a rebuttal as he grumbled indistinctly.

Resonating in his mind were the words of Father Lantom, dissuading him from making a deal with the devil. He recalled the teachings of his church, the warnings of the Devil’s temptations and forms. Every aspect within Matt urged him to escape – to avoid ever aiding such a cruel-hearted man. Yet something spurred him on. Calling him to submit to the Devil’s offer and accept it.

He could sense Kilgrave in his mind, a residue from the control. Whispers of his voice rattling around, like a virus, scarring him for long-lasting damages. Matt knew for certain that he was faced with the devil, the adversary to God and the creature in control of all things evil.

Racing through his mind was nothing but terror, as every part of him urged him to escape. He could help Wesley and fight Kilgrave – or at least injure him enough before he could do anything else.

Except, something buried deep within him clawed its way out. Beneath the moral compass and legal oaths was a creature made from the grief and the horrors that had lingered Matt throughout his life. The injustice done against his own father, the accident that had caused his state. Elektra and Stick. The abusive father who first triggered his vigilantism, to the Russians who ran the human trafficking ring.

Something buried deep within Matt was a version of himself that terrified him. A scarred and angry self, that was released at certain points of his nightlife. Now, however, it was being summoned by the devil that stood before him. Were Matt to accept Kilgrave’s offer, his sacrifice would be the morality that restrained that creature within.

There was a choice to be made – a choice that could splinter into a hundred different timelines – and with a deep sigh following his silence, he geared his head towards Wesley.

“Who’s Wilson Fisk? Where can we find him?” Matt questioned, informally accepting Kilgrave’s offer. Wesley’s reply was muffled, as he still complied with Kilgrave’s instruction to shut his mouth. Instant regret clouded Matt’s mind, knowing that he had succumbed to the devil’s temptation.

“You don’t have to shut your mouth now.” Kilgrave stated, before Wesley promptly accepted the opportunity to open his mouth. He took a deep breath through his mouth, terrified by Kilgrave’s ability to completely control him.

“What is that? Hypnotism? Magic? You’re not one of those aliens, aren’t you?” Despite the fact that Wesley was an infamous player in the crime syndicate of Hells Kitchen, he showed no signs of that strength as he glanced back up towards Kilgrave. Terror tinted his eyes, and Matt could hear his rapid heartbeat, mere seconds away from bursting out of his chest.

“Answer Matt’s questions.” Kilgrave stated, ignoring Wesley’s panicked attempt to make sense of who and what Kilgrave was.

“He’s currently indisposed. 166 West 18^th Street. His organization has ties to the Japanese and the Russians, and he has conflict with the Irish.”

Matt paused for a moment, his ears pricked at the mention of the Japanese. While he personally had limited contact with the Japanese criminal organization, he knew there was at least one man pursuing their deeds.

His old mentor, a blind crotchety old man, whose pessimism was complimented by a general lack of care for sentimentalism. A man with a grovelling voice and foul mouth, who had been fighting a war against the Japanese for years – having once tried to use Matt as a warrior in his childhood. Matt let out an infuriated sigh for a brief moment, thinking about the likelihood that Stick was likely still fighting his war.

Now, he had the exact information that he needed. The details that he would have otherwise had to struggle and search for, fighting low-life criminals for simple fragments of information. A fight against the criminal underworld of Hells Kitchen was avoided, as Matt now found a direct route towards the kingpin of Hells Kitchen.

“What do we do now?” Realising his identity was compromised, Matt could feel his heart pound in his chest with anxiety.

“Don’t worry,” Wesley interjected, before Kilgrave replied, “I’ll take your secret to the grave.” Hurriedly, Wesley pulled open his car door. Scrambling around for a brief moment, he grasped onto something. A cold metallic pistol was yanked from underneath the seat, before he aimed it towards himself.

Despite Matt’s blindness, he could sense Wesley’s sudden action. Jangling bullets rang in his ears, as the metallic casing whipping through the air slithered into his attention. Wesley’s heart beating in his chest as though it was about to jump out and shoot the gun itself. Kilgrave stood motionless, his heartbeat unchanged as the corners of his smile expanded with devious glee.

“Stop!” Matt shouted, jumping forward. His sudden action threw aside the façade he often put on to pretend his blindness was nothing more than an unfortunate disability. He reached out, pushing down Wesley’s arms as he fixated his attention on the world around them. “What are you doing?” Matt questioned, utterly confused.

“Death is preferable to what he’ll do to me now.” Wesley stated, filled with a sudden streak of fear that overshadowed the shady and confident pretence he often carried around him. In fact, within a mere few minutes, Wesley seemed to be a completely new person. Weak and terrified, now with a heart-racing through his chest at the possible consequences of his actions.

“Mr Wesley, I’m sure we can help. Nelson and I are still trained lega-”

“You think you two amateurs stand a chance against him?” Barked Wesley, throwing up his hands as he let go of the gun. Amused by Matt’s naivety, he let out an agitated groan. “Do you know why we get away with the shit we do, Mr Murdock? Because money talks. Money does the one thing that nothing else can do – not the law or morality or even fear – it unifies everybody involved completely. So the fact I even spoke his name means there’s someone out there. There are lawyers ready to fight his battles, cops ready to hang me in a cell, and lowlife scum ready to assassinate me. There’s nothing you or Mr Nelson could do.”

For a brief moment, Wesley glanced up towards Kilgrave. Matt could hear the pounding in his chest and the rapid breathing through his dry pursed lips. Shiftily, his eyes jumped around the parking lot, while a slither of a droplet of sweat ran down his forehead.

“This man, however, could save me.” Wesley stated, calming down for a moment as his mind burst with the possibilities that Kilgrave could fulfill. Kilgrave could clear his name or order executions. He could be weaponised for or against the legal system. Tear apart the lives of simple insignificant people, or collapse entire countries. “He is a walking miracle to the highest bidder. How does it work?”

Now, having spotted his one-way ticket out of the damning situation that he had found himself in, his heartbeat slowed. Terror subsided in favour for a crueller and selfish emotion.

“I don’t answer to you.” Kilgrave spoke through his teeth. Wesley’s questions had struck a sensitive spot in Kilgrave’s life as they glared towards one another. “All you need to know is that I could make you do anything or want. Not the other way round.”

“This isn’t helping.” Matt promptly intervened, sensing the rising heartbeat in both Kilgrave and Wesley. Holding out his hands against both of their chests, he warned them away from one another. “Mr Wesley, since you helped us, we want to offer our help too. On the basis this is never spoken about again. I need you to agree with me now, that together we will take down this Fisk and the crime syndicate.”

Wesley let out an irritated sigh, before rubbing his eyes. He considered the proposition, knowing that Kilgrave could save or end his life with just a few words.

“Okay, sure.” Wesley grumbled, “After all, Fisk doesn’t stand a chance against the masked idiot who's been disrupting trade and this purple freak.”

***

At that moment, an alliance was formed. Such an alliance would never have occurred in your own universe, but here, in this multiverse of infinite possibilities, unlikely events like this are no strangers to me.

With the knowledge of who the kingpin of operations was, and when and where to find him, Matt’s venture to taking down the growing criminal syndicate in Hells Kitchen was fast-tracked. This timeline grows further and further away from the original. Mr Healy flees New York unscathed, while Wilson Fisk approaches a confrontation with the Devil of Hell’s kitchen earlier than expected.

***

Under the advice of Wesley, Matt waited to strike the mysterious Wilson Fisk the next evening. Fisk was, as Matt was told, busy indulging himself in the pleasures of art, people busily carried the pieces he’d brought inside. Although Matt found the wait excruciatingly painful, wanting nothing more than to fight the corrupt and cruel ringleader of the growing crimes in Hells Kitchen, he subdued the burning desire with Foggy’s companionship at Josie's Bar.

“I’m telling you, Matt, it was crazy!” Foggy declared, laughing as he took a swig of his beer. Matt chuckled, enjoying Foggy’s enthused reaction to the story. “An entire jury decided that the man wasn’t guilty. That sort of thing never happens. Your whole spiel, about morality and the facts of the case and how Healy is gonna have to suffer outside the court – that was amazing.”

Matt scoffed humbly, knowing for a fact that he couldn’t take the credit for such an unprecedented victory. As he bowed his head, his face kept the smile that was splattered across his face, thankful for the time he could spend with Foggy.

“Well, we did it – and we got paid loads for it. Still not sure if we did the right thing though.”

“It’s not like you need to worry.” Foggy joked, taking a nosy glance around the bar. Matt paused for a moment, unsure as to what Foggy meant. Fortunately, for Matt’s clarity, Foggy promptly saw Matt’s confused and half-panicked expression. “Tomorrow morning, you can just walk into a confessional booth and have your sins forgiven. Whereas I… will probably need a therapist after some of that evidence- I mean, what a nutjob, right?”

Matt nodded his head, chuckling gently as he took a sip of his beer. A silence rested amongst the pair for a brief moment, as Matt observed the world around him through his senses. The smells and sounds and flavours in the cold air.

Matt listened as the door to the bar opened, before smelling Karen’s particular perfume. The woman, who Matt was confident was his unpaid secretary, wandered across the bars sticky floor in a pair of high heels. Jangling around her neck was a neckless, which Matt was relatively certain was old and attached with sentimentality.

“K- Karen! Wow, you look- stunning.” Foggy stuttered as he caught sight of Karen, who was now barely a few steps away from the pair. Matt could hear Foggy’s heart quicken, before beads of sweat oozed from his forehead. Karen nervously chuckled, flattered by Foggy’s flustered state and compliment. “You wanna join us, we’re celebrating our victory today.”

“Thanks, I’d love to, but I’ve actually got plans for tonight. I have a date- but I just wanted to pop by and drop the files for Ed Porter.” Karen smiled at Matt and Foggy, resting her hand on Matt’s shoulder as she handed the paper file to Foggy.

Now that Karen stood directly beside him, Matt could sense a faint whiff of a familiar cologne. It confused him for a moment, while also intriguing him into recalling where it was from. Distracting himself for a moment, as Karen and Foggy discussed the drunken electrician whose house burned down in an ‘accident’, Matt’s mind raced through the many colognes he’d smelt.

“That’s a nice perfume, Karen.” Matt interjected, filling a sudden moment of silence. He smiled as he turned towards her direction, “You must really like this guy you’re seeing. What’s his name?”

Oddly, Karen hesitated in replying. Baffled for a moment, she found herself unable to say his name, as though something was stopping her. Foggy waited patiently, while each moment of silence only began to confirm the fears that resonated in Matt’s mind. “Anyways, I should get going – it’s a nice restaurant called Niku. Sort of Asian fusion, you know? I’ll see you guys tomorrow.”

Quickly, almost flustered by her inability to utter her date’s name, she headed for the door. Her heels clanking against the ground with each step, echoing throughout the bar as men scattered around the bar paused to observe the woman – to which Matt heard the proceeding quietly uttered crude comments.

Matt paused, his ears trying their best to follow Karen’s footsteps and the surrounding sounds attached to her. Although, as she jumped inside a taxi and sped off through the night, his senses were limited.

“What was I saying? Oh yeah! Do you know any good therapists? Because our next case is a piss-drunk electrician and I know for a fact it’s going to make me rethink my life choices.”

***

Gaining access to Fisk’s apartment would prove to be tricky. Wilson Fisk was a man who threatened the lives of anybody who spoke his name, which was certainly the type of paranoia that prompted security cameras observing every corner of the building.

Fortunately, for Matt, he had been given a detailed list of the building’s blind spots. Staircases left unobserved, apartments not yet bought and unguarded areas. Mapped through his mind was a complex path, which would hopefully lead him straight to the bedroom of Wilson Fisk – where he could then proceed to confront Fisk in his large and open living room.

Matt’s ears were now primed to a hundred triggers of sounds, smells, touches, and flavours. The world of busied lives rang around him, as he snuck through a maintenance corridor, reserved only for the janitors and plumbers.

As Matt approached the door he needed, he jumped aside behind a wall. His ears primed to footsteps and voices of two janitors, simply passing through towards the nearest maintenance room.

“…anyway, this woman was furious that Stark tower is now the Avengers tower. So, I told her, you wouldn’t be so happy if you lived here.”

“I only hate the avengers because after the Incident, they had government contractors clean the place up. Kept all the cool alien crap for themselves.”

“Well, I know a guy in Queens so if you ever wanted alien crap just…” The door slammed behind him and while Matt tilted his head in intrigue for where their conversation was going, though he stayed on route.

Resonating in his mind were the first few instructions given by Wesley: “When you enter through the alley entrance, into the maintained corridor, you want to continue until you reach the fifth door. That opens into the fire exit stairwell – from here, you’ll want to go up about four floors, because on the sixth floor they have security cameras watching the door – apparently, the residents on the sixth floor need security.”

Matt followed the instructions, keeping to the walls as his ears and nose kept accurately aware of the world beyond him. Matt could sense the vast open stairwell he was yet to climb, knowing that this would be no easy feat for him to accomplish.

Traipsing through the building, he found himself carefully ensuring he wasn’t caught by guards or janitors or other people who were in the building below Fisk’s penthouse. He kept to the sides of walls and broke into bedrooms and passed through windows. And following a few close calls, one involving a frisky couple and another involving a newly employed guard who was slacking off in the unobserved areas of the stairwells, he eventually found himself landing in Wilson Fisk’s bedroom.

Unfortunately, for Matt, he was unable to appreciate the beautiful shimmer of the moonlight and city light that cascaded through the large glass windows. A painting sat, fixated to the wall across from the bed, though all it appeared to be, was mere gradients of white paint.

Fresh smells surrounded Matt, like unused furniture and clean floors. Artwork that had been carried in from galleries, with the smell of old paint lingering. Newly bought plants surrounded the room, while a rug was thrown across the floor still contained the smell of the store within its fibers.

Matt waited patiently in the darkness. His ears tuned to the world, which was slightly quieter from up here. If it wasn’t for the price and his dedication to fighting crime, Matt believed a penthouse like this was exactly what he needed. Besides the rooms below and the whirring of helicopters and blaring sirens from down on the streets, there was a true sense of solitude this high up.

“-nd you’re sure Vanessa has made it home safely?” The booming voice of a large authoritative voice sounded through the corridors, following a sudden ding of the elevator. Pounding on the ground, his feet erupted a bellowing in Matt’s ears. Meddling with his cufflinks, Fisk awaited his retirement to his new home.

“We’re sure, the car has just returned.”

“Thank you, Leland.” Fisk commented, sighing gently with a newfound sense of calmness. “And if you find any word from Mr Wesley, do let me know.” Fisk finally reached the door of the penthouse, before throwing it open. Matt could hear two armed guards at the door, while another elderly man wandered back across the corridor.

Securing himself against the wall, Matt waited anxiously. The heavy pounding footsteps of Fisk bellowed throughout the penthouse, ringing in his ears. Observing the sounds that erupted from the living room, Matt timed everything perfectly.

He readied himself for the confrontation that he had yearned for.

Chapter Text

Matt Murdock’s confrontation with Wilson Fisk is written across many timelines. Some results are intriguing, while others repetitive. Yet, in this universe, where the branched timeline strays so far from the original, I find myself watching curiously. With Kilgrave positioned closer to Wilson Fisk and Matt Murdock entering his home much earlier than he should have, the events that are to unfold are unique.

Never across the multiverse have I witnessed a scenario lead towards this…

***

As Fisk plummeted down onto the cushioned couch, Matt gradually wandered out from the bedroom. Wesley’s advice still resonated in his mind, guiding each step that he took. Silently, passing through the penthouse undetected, he reached a small button encased in a glass case.

Running his hand along the glass for a moment, he searched for a hinge. Pounding in his chest, his heart prepared itself for what was to come next. After a few moments of searching for some way to remove the glass case, he gave up. Split, his attention fixated on both Fisk and how he would activate the button.

“Once you get into the penthouse, there’ll be a button.” Wesley’s voice started in Matt’s memories as he prepared his cloth-wrapped fist. “Pressing it activates the lockdown procedure – which can only be deactivated when a button inside and outside is pressed. Mr Fisk only deals with the highest security.” That statement alone drew out an amused grin on Matt’s face, as he prepared himself.

Shattering glass alerted Fisk to pounce to his feet. Prying eyes observed the source of the sudden piercing sound of glass, before the lights switched off simultaneously. Glimmering with a red tone, the room was plunged into darkness. The pure white of Fisk’s outfit contrasted with his opponents, who abruptly appeared standing over the glass banister of the upper floor.

“I wondered how long it would be until we met. The masked vigilante of Hell’s Kitchen.” Matt listened curiously, as the calmed tone of Fisk’s voice matched his soothed heartbeat. Despite the fact that the penthouse was almost purged into complete darkness, kept alit only by a looming red light, and the appearance of the masked vigilante, Fisk seemed unphased. “I assume you found me out through some lowlife criminal,” Fisk stated, now standing at the bottom of the stairs.

“They’re all lowlifes. Resorting to violence for one’s own gain isn’t exactly the act of an upstanding citizen.”

“I agree!” Fisk declared, surprising Matt slightly. “Sometimes, however, the ends must justify the means! Sometimes it is violence that gets results, and we can do good with those results. After all, here you are. No doubt you’ve punched some of my men, dangled others over rooftops. Beaten and bruised into comas.”

“I’m not here to talk. I’m here to make you pay for what you’ve done – the people you’ve hurt.”

“And how exactly do you plan on doing that? Do you plan to kill me? Beating me to a pulp? Threaten my loved ones until I offer up my money? Because I assure you, young man, life is not a fairy tale. The stories of knights in shining armours saving kingdoms are lies. Our world is rampaged by gods and monsters, billionaires and aliens. Tony Stark killed people with his weapons but is now an Avenger! What I have done is worked to save this city. My city.”

“No, you’ve poisoned it. Trafficking and drugs and corruption and murder. You’ve made this city a hellhole for every person who walks those streets. Innocent men and women and children, terrified of the streets of this city. Their city.”

Fisk, silent for a moment, took a step forward. Matt was cautious, his ears listening to the shouting outside as the guards tried to make sense of the locked door – all while also trying to focus on Fisk’s gradual approach towards him.

“Let me guess,” Fisk chuckled, raising his heartbeat slightly as he amused himself. Cracking his knuckles, he took another step forward. “You’re the hero their city needs. The hero to restore this ‘hellhole’ that I have made?”

“No.” Blunt in his response, Matt listened to the world around them both. The clambering guards and buzzing of activated radios. “I’m not a hero.” Matt could recall the many instances where his actions weren’t heroic. He wasn’t the type to save a city from an alien invasion or prevent an amassing of an army. Just a man, in a mask, punching and fighting until he eradicated crime from the city.

However, the vital problem he faced was Fisk, who could see all of those flaws. The man, who had led violence across the city, could smell the stench of mixed morality from Matt a mile away. A blind focus on low-level crime and ignorance of the larger issues. It was their stark divide, both wanting to raise the city to greatness and clean the streets, though their methods were utterly different.

“I suppose not.” Matt could sense the amusement in Fisk’s voice as he stared down towards him, a slight scoff and a growing grin across his face. “After all, what is a hero in this world we live in? Those we praise destroyed our city, dropped giant ships into our oceans. Perhaps, labelling yourself a hero today brings about a prejudice.”

“Is that why you skulk in the shadows? Scared of those prejudices?” Suddenly, as though a new lease of life unleashed within him, Matt pounced upon a new vulnerable spot. It was tricky to observe Fisk, analyse his mind. Each word uttered with eloquence and calm thought out carefully before being delivered cautiously. Even with the large posture and booming voice, he chose a gentle demeaning tone to demand authority – an authority that Matt couldn’t quite match.

“I am waiting. Until the time is right.”

“What do you mean? What time?” Matt question viciously, growing more frustrated by the lack of answers he was receiving. Fisk remained composed.

“This city needs me-” As Fisk continued speaking, Matt’s attention was now split. Somewhere else there was a familiar sound of leather shoes tapping along the ground. A faint whiff of perfume and cologne mixed together, confusing him ultimately as his attention abruptly switched and bounced around. “-am I boring you?” Now there was a sense of rage in Fisk, as he raised his voice.

Glaring back towards the man in the mask, Fisk had noticed Matt’s twitching head as he listened elsewhere.

“No, just wait!” Matt ordered loudly, hearing the voice of the devil. The voice he feared but considered to save him. Fisk, outraged, stormed across the room, prepared to demand attention from the masked man with either a boom of his voice or a collision with his heavily clutched fists.

Yet, as he stood moments away, both of them caught onto the sounds of gears. A sudden release of locks and silencing of alarms. Switching from red to white, the lights grew brighter and almost made Matt’s scruffy beard easier to catch sight of.

“Am I interrupting something?” Amused, the British man chuckled gently at the sight of Matt and Fisk stood mere inches away, staring guiltily and confused towards him – at least, Fisk was and Matt’s mouth curled in a way to express his bemusement. “Stay there, and if anybody else tries to get in, shoot them in the kneecaps.” Demanded the man, turning his head around to the collective of men in black suits and pistols or rifles clutched in their hands.

“Who do you think you are, giving my men orders. Guards, deal with them!” Fisk barked at the black suits, though nobody responded. His orders fell on deaf ears, enraging him more as nobody responded. Turning his head around the room, throwing piercing glares towards the brown-haired man in the purple suit and the masked vigilante who began to smirk, he felt his knuckles clench. “Who are you?” Shrieked Fisk, now almost trembling with rage.

“The only man who could bring your entire empire here with a single word – okay, maybe six.” Although Matt couldn’t quite see the blossoming smugness that lined Kilgrave’s expression, nor the fury that burned deeper into Fisk, he could defiantly sense it in the cracking of his knuckles and raised pulse – all the while, Kilgrave’s heartbeat remained steady.

“I don’t think you quite understand who I am.” Fisk stated, trying to defuse the anger that grew within his heart before it became uncontrollable.

“Wilson Fisk. Mother, Marlene Vistain, in a care home upstate. Father, William Fisk, believed to be a victim of Don Rigoletto…” As Kilgrave began to detail aspects of Fisk’s life that were known to very few people left alive, Matt could hear his rising heartbeat. Wrath flared through his mind, initially at the mention of his mother, then father, though the ultimate trigger was any mentions of his illicit dealings. The relations between the Russians and Japanese weren’t the biggest threat to Fisk, but instead one word – or, at least, one name. “… Current love interest, Vanessa Marianna.”

At the mere mention of her name, Fisk’s heartbeat raced. Matt could hear the clenched fist and the grumbling and beckoning scream from his mouth. With little time to react, Matt was met with an abrupt thump to his jaw, knocking him to the ground.

“Don’t say her name! Get her name out of your filthy, unworthy mouth!” Unleashed with pure rage, Fisk stormed towards Kilgrave ready to deliver the same punishment as he had done to Matt.

Matt staggered across the floor, his ears ringing slightly as he tried his best to fixate on the pounding footsteps of Fisk and his clenched knuckles. Quickly noticing Kilgrave hadn’t moved, he panicked. Blood trickled down his nose and he could smell the rich iron in his blood as he gathered to his feet. Now, he estimated, Fisk was roughly a meter away from Kilgrave, soon to be in swinging distance.

Scurrying towards a lamp he could hear buzzing near him, Matt’s actions became suddenly futile.

“Fisk, stop.” Throwing his hand in the air, Kilgrave’s demand was met with an immediate reaction. Fisk, despite all his rage and anger brewing within him was prevented from expressing every ounce of anger that consumed him by just two words. Paralysed completely, Fisk glanced down towards his fists and back towards the man draped in purple.

“What is this? How are you doing this?” Fisk’s mind exploded with questions, while his mouth erupted into asking them as quickly as possible. Matt listened as the man’s heartbeat quickened into a panic, the same terror which almost toned his voice.

“You men, in here!” Dismissing Fisk’s stream of anxious queries, Kilgrave turned his attention to the few men who scattered the entrance of the penthouse. Nervously glancing to one another, they began to wander inside apprehensively, unsure what the man would demand. His British accent was prominent as he relayed their task. Grinning, Kilgrave counted the men, before glancing back to Fisk. “All four of you, bite his finger.”

Although none of the guards in black suits wanted to comply, they felt their bodies wander forward. Their legs guiding them towards Fisk, each unnerved by the instruction they were unwillingly following. Matt could hear their terror, their heartbeats pounding as they slowly approached their leader.

Fisk watched on, utterly immobile, uneasy at the sight. He growled like a creature, hounding his instructions countering Kilgrave – except they didn’t listen. They couldn’t.

Resonating in their minds, reverberating like a haunting echo, Kilgrave’s instruction forced them forward. The first guard took hold of Fisk’s finger and briefly stared down at it in disgust. Not only was the idea excruciatingly horrible, biting a finger seemed as though it would deliver Fisk a pain that could only make him cringe, but he also knew the dangers of what would proceed.

Nonetheless, he complied. Lowering down and placing the finger in his mouth, his teeth clamped down. Clutched between the white pearls was Fisk’s fingers. A slight crunch of Fisk’s bones sounded through the air, piercing Matt’s heightened senses with total disgust.

Fisk screamed, yelped in pain as the booming bellow of his voice rumbled through the air. “Get off of me! Don’t listen to him, listen to me.” Yelled Fisk once again, though his roaring voice was in vain. “Bite my finger again and I will kill you. I’ll kill every single one of you!” Futile as it may have been, Fisk was determined to deter the men from continuing.

The second reluctantly proceeded as Kilgrave’s voice echoed in his mind too. Stood watching, Kilgrave grinned, before his eyes darted back into Fisk’s, who now prepared for another shot of pain to surge through him as the second took hold of another finger.

“How should we make him pay?” Carefully avoiding using Matt’s name, the man draped in purple turned his head towards the masked vigilante, who stood paralysed across the room, unwillingly complicit in the events that unfolded before him. “This is the man behind all that crime you’re so against. So tell me, how do we make him pay?” Kilgrave’s voice now shouted, enjoying watching as the third hesitantly approached Fisk’s other hand.

“Make them stop first.” Matt stated, hearing the reluctant footsteps of the third, who now was inspired by hope that the masked vigilante would rescue him from the horrible act. Kilgrave stood silently for a moment, grimacing in disappointment as he heard Matt’s response. Before answering, he ensured the third man was unpreventable, his eyes flicking down carefully.

“No.” He finally replied. Curiosity burned through his mind, anticipating to discover how his response would provoke Matt. His eyes wandered between the fourth guard, Fisk and the masked vigilante whose anger and disgust only grew.

“I said, make them stop.” Matt demanded automatically, now listening as the fourth guard unwillingly approached Fisk’s hand.

“And I said no. Isn’t this what Wilson Fisk deserves? Excruciating pain? This is the man behind so much crime in our city, the man who allows the Russians and Japanese in crimes and drugs. Don’t you think he should suffer?” Kilgrave wondered, his eyes now jumping between the fourth guard and Matt.

“Not like this.” Matt stated, disgusted as he heard the fourth guard mere moments away from the act he was reluctant to follow the order of. Flinging the lamp across the room, Matt was almost perfectly precise, as his ears caught onto the shattering of ceramic and glass against the guards head. His pulse dropped, though it’s beating sustained as he was merely rendered unconscious.

“Fisk,” Kilgrave rolled his eyes, barely heeding the unconscious guard any attention. “Fetch me a hammer.” A dastardly and cruel grin splattered across the purple man’s face, instinctevly casting the Kingpin’s mind back to so many decades ago. Matt listened curiously, as Fisk’s heartbeat raced quicker – it was either anger or panic, though neither were clear on his face as he sought out the hammer.

“What are you doing?” Matt asked, hurrying across the room as the guards stood motionless, as they had been ordered to prior to Kilgrave’s entrance into the room.

“It’s quite easy to get information quickly when anybody will do anything you will tell them, never expecting anything back. I should feel guiltier about manipulating old mothers in care homes, whose minds aren’t quite there. But my gift can recover some memories even they don’t know they remember.” There was an uneasy and cruel tone to Kilgrave’s voice, easily picked up on by Matt, who listened as Fisk retrieved the hammer.

“What does that mean? What are you doing?” Matt questioned, knowing the only action that wouldn’t get him killed was interrogating Kilgrave. Though, it’s difficult to interrogate the devil, when he’s busy dabbling in sin.

Muttering something to Matt, as though to dismiss his anxieties, Kilgrave watched excitedly as Fisk returned hesitantly with the hammer. The marching stomp in his step and snarling growl was almost like that of a Pitbull. Fury and wrath contained within him, unable to express any of it.

“How are you doing this?” Reiterated Fisk, still demanding answers from the man. Kilgrave, however, simply grinned.

“Tell me, how many times did you hit him?” Although his vague question seemed confusing to Matt, who stood cluelessly and anxiously incapable of helping, Fisk knew the answer.

Flashing in his mind were days of his childhood, his mother sobbing, his father stood over her, taunting them both. Firmly grasped in his hand was a hammer, almost exactly like the one resting in his hand now. He could recall the splatters of blood that painted the walls and stained his face. Feeling as it dried on his skin and seeped into his clothes.

“Twelve, I think.” Fisk answered, trapped deep in the emotions. Matt could sense rage or fear or both in his beating heart. “Answer my question! How are you doing this?” Fisk beckoned, staring furiously back into Kilgrave’s eyes before raising the hammer. For a moment, he broke free from Kilgrave’s spell, or at least it seemed.

“Slam that hammer into your left hand twelve times.” Kilgrave ordered, throwing Matt into a panicked frenzy as he turned back around to Kilgrave.

Fisk anxiously complied, forced towards the closest table to plant his hand down.

“Don’t make him do this. Tell him to stop – this isn’t how he should pay.”

“Consider it lucky I’m not making him re-enact that day.” Kilgrave’s voice was spine-chilling as he turned back around to Matt, enraged by the protests and opposition. “Otherwise, how do we fix this all? Send him to jail, call in some lawyers? Just look at Mr Healy, he got away free.”

“That’s who you are! The man who had Mr Healy acquitted.” Fisk declared, finally recognising the purple-draped man, before resting his hand down. Surging through his brain was every instinct against this. Two fingers already pulsated with pain, while he knew a hammer could only make things worse. As Fisk raised his hand, holding the hammer high in the air and impulsively trying to desist, Kilgrave turned to Matt.

“Alright, stop!” Kilgrave shouted, sighing disappointedly as Matt still frowned towards him. “Honestly, I don’t get why you’re so obsessed with all this morality bullshit. All of you heroes, all the same. Conflict within you all – you all stop at killing but it’s exactly what you want to do.” Fisk let out a relieved sigh as his arm was fixated in the sky, before lowering it. “I could do it for you, you know. I could let you believe I made you do it.”

Temptation now bestowed upon Matt. It was unlike the devil to offer so many opportunities of sin. It was almost as if Kilgrave didn’t care either way, but enjoyed toying in matters he could only make worse – as if this was all a game until the bigger prize arrived. But Matt couldn’t quite work out what it was.

Except, he could only assume it was a woman. The cheap cologne was evidently one that was used on a cheap date night, while now he caught the same scent of Karen’s perfume and Asian food. The fibres of his purple suit were stained with the stench of his activities that night. Now, in this moment of silence that filled the room, Matt could sense a whole new layer to Kilgrave’s mischievous plans.

“No – we should get out of here.” Matt muttered nervously, glancing back towards Kilgrave, knowing that his plan for Fisk to submit and pay for his crimes were compromised. He knew he needed to escape and create a new strategy, but while also having to deal with something far more serious.

“If you say so.” Rolling his eyes, Kilgrave began to wander out from the room. “We should probably clean up after ourselves…” Mischievously coming to a halt, Kilgrave peered his head back into the room and watched curiously as the guards and Fisk attempted to recover from the torment Kilgrave had put them through.

“Don’t even think about it.” Matt maliciously stated, directing his bristling rage towards the man draped in purple.

***

Despite his broken jaw, Matt escaped safely. The cameras of the building were wiped of any evidence of Kilgrave and the masked vigilante, and the pair returned to Matt’s apartment unscathed by the law. Fisk, however, was not quite as prepared to abandon his interaction with the Devil of Hells Kitchen…

***

“I can see why they gave this place so cheap. Fucking hell.” Kilgrave commented, the blinding white light bursting through the windows and painfully hitting his eyes. Slowly slumping down upon Matt’s couch, Kilgrave reeled his head back and stared up towards the ceiling, replaying memories from their confrontation with Fisk for enjoyment.

“I had it under control, Kilgrave.” Matt shouted, angrily darting his head across the room as he filled a glass of water. Briskly taking a swig, he waited patiently for Kilgrave to respond at all, though the man draped in purple was far too busy replaying his memories. “Now you’ve only made things worse.”

“Relax, Matthew,” Kilgrave uttered apathetically like a scolded teenager barking back in response to his parents. Matt felt his body weaken, though fortunately, his loosened grip was far away from the glass he held moments prior. “I can make all of this so much easier for you, if you just let me help you!”

“This is my fight and I’m not letting it end with death and violence. I’ve trained all my life to fight crime, in the courtroom and on the streets, and Fisk needs to be in a courtroom. Make a lesson of him, prove to the world the legal system works!”

“If you want to convince yourself any of that will work, then you’re blind in more ways than eyesight,” Kilgrave remarked, rolling his eyes as he stretched his legs out upon the table. The thud resonated across the room, hitting Matt’s ears he noticed various other factors around them.

High heels wandered up along the stairwell, carrying a particular recognisable fragrance in the air that caught his attention. It was Karen. Speeding up the stairs with a sense of urgency, she almost seemed panicked as she raced towards the door.

A series of terrified knocks proceeded, before Matt jolted into action (not helped by Kilgrave’s nonchalant instruction to open it seeping into Matt’s mind). Having ripped the mask from his face and unwrapped his hands prior, Matt now opened the door with a bloodied and bruised jaw, wearing all black clothes and his eyes seeing the world alit.

“Oh my god, Matt! Are you okay? What are you wearing?” Karen jumped into a new stream of panic as her eyes befell Matt, questions bristling through her mind as she lunged forward and rested her hand on his shoulder. She looked carefully back towards him, alarmed slightly by the bloodied sight.

“Everything’s fine, it’s just not the best time right no-”

“I need to tell you something, about the guy I went on a date with. I can’t say his name, but he’s on the TV. They’re saying everything I can’t say, just please.” Karen’s sense of worry possessed her as she scurried past Matt’s protests. Her clanking heels echoed throughout Matt’s eerily empty apartment until she reached the end of the dividing wall between the entrance and the kitchen.

Stood before her was the wide-open entrance to the bedroom and a series of couches and a coffee table, littered with mail and remotes and brail paperwork – as well as a familiar man in purple.

“Oh-” Karen’s terror pounded in Matt’s ears, hearing as her heartbeat pulsated loudly. She was almost speechless as her eyes danced between Kilgrave and Matt, uncertain of what was happening. Glancing down at Matt’s bloodied black sweater and the discarded mask on the kitchen counter, she was quickly met with a daunting realisation of what had happened.

The penny dropped.

“I’m on the news?” Kilgrave wondered, curiously reaching his arm forward as he scrambled for the remote. Switching between the channels, barely giving Karen nor Matt any attention, he eventually landed on an unravelling story. Images and videos of grainy footage of a purple-suited man with a British accent, accompanied by a scruffy and bleeding masked vigilante, splattered across the news station, before finally switching to Wilson Fisk.

***

Elsewhere, at this moment, outside of his penthouse, Wilson Fisk gathered a collective of news reporters. Under a sea of flashing lights and eager journalists, the man behind real estate and crime stood before New York, wearing his heart on his sleeve.

This happened in your universe too, however much later on. The confrontation with the Devil of Hells Kitchen leads Fisk to reveal himself, expose his manipulation behind the scenes, though this revelation differs greatly from yours.

***

“I’m not very good at this. Being out in public. But I felt the need to speak up for this city, that I love with all my heart. No one should have to live in fear. In fear of madmen, who have no regard for who they injure.” Under the night sky and a blinding series of flashing cameras, Wilson Fisk made his debut in the world of politics. Thrust himself in the limelight, played amidst reels of his footage and assault.

“This evening, I was visited by a masked vigilante, wishing to send me a message. A message of coercion and power and corruptness. Men like him poison our city as they take the law into their own hands. They follow the acts of Tony Stark and Steve Rogers in their efforts of defeating evil, but these men become evil themselves. However, I saw true evil tonight. I saw a Devil, a man whose words could conjure an action on a whim. A man who made this happen.” Fisk raised his hand revealing a bloodied cast wrapped around his hand, where two fingers and a self-inflicted hammer wound had damaged his left hand.

“This man, who’s face and description has been provided to the authorities, is the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen. Under the alias ‘Kilgrave’, I believe this man to be seriously corrupt and threatens the lives of our city. We must show these masked psychopaths that we shall not bow down to their campaign. These men hoped to prevent me from achieving my dream – a dream to improve this city. Better it, reconstruct it. We still recover from the Battle of New York, an event that has scarred one of the greatest cities in the world.

“However, Hell’s Kitchen stands in defiance of these men and I stand up against these men and pledge they will be stopped. I hoped to fix this city quietly, shy away from your attention, in fear of the consequences of the ones I love. But I realise, I cannot do this alone. I can’t keep living in the shadows, afraid of the light. We must make this city a better place together, to rid of poverty and crime the plague our streets.

“You may wonder who I am. Why I have lurked in the shadows while attempting to improve our lives from the darkness. Tonight, before you all and in rejection of the fearmongering of the vigilantes and psychopaths that roam our streets, I confess my name. My name is Wilson Fisk, and I pledge to build this city to greater heights! Together, we will stop men like the masked vigilante and Devil of Hell’s Kitchen. We will make our streets safe.”

Chapter Text

Within this timeline of events, the life of Matt Murdock is not the only one to change. Ripples and branches from the one difference in who saves Matt Murdock, affecting the lives of Kilgrave and Wilson Fisk directly, but even the lives of Karen Page and Foggy Nelson were seen to morph and shape around these changes. 

Karen Page, however, experienced the brunt of this new timeline. The rage and satisfaction and cruel joy of Kilgrave.

*Four Days Earlier*

Silence cloaked the office as Karen waited alone, staring down at a beige paper envelope clutched in her trembling hand. The other sat on the edge of her mouth, her fingernails clasped between her teeth as a daunting sense of anxiety overwhelmed her. Through the envelope, she could see the logo of Union Allied, and sat beside her was the day’s newspaper, splattered with coverage on the ‘Union Allied Corruption’.

Images of Daniel Fischer’s bloodied body flashed in her mind as she read over her name – such flashes couldn’t even be cured by the heroic might of the man in black. Terror lurked over her shoulder, sending a chilling shiver down her spine, before she jolted out of her seat.

Slamming the envelope against the table, she hurriedly found something else to busy herself with – a box marked: ‘Stationary – I think’ sat amongst the abundance of unopened boxes. Chuckling gently at the labels Foggy had given the boxes, knowing full well Matt couldn’t read them and that they were solely for his viewing during the move into the office.

Behind her, the door creaked open, jerking Karen into action as she turned around with the closest thing she could find. Cold metal clutched in her hand as she aimed the staple gun towards the unexpected arrival.

A man draped in purple glanced across the room, smiling gently at Karen with his arms raised in the air. A stubbly beard littered his chin while a cautious glint resonated in his eyes. He didn’t speak as he stared back to Karen, looking almost guilty as terror drove his actions.

“Who are you?” Karen asked immediately, lowering the staple gun as she realised the mysterious man didn’t appear to pose any particular threat. “Matt and Foggy – the… erm… the lawyers, won’t be in for another hour or so.”

“My name is Kilgrave.” He started, beginning to lower his arms to his sides as his charming British accent distracted Karen from his unusual name for a split second. “I’m a friend of Matt’s – well, we met last night. He was in a bit of an accident, but I got him to the hospital alright. But when he said Lawyer, I expected something grander. No elevators or plants or cafeteria?”

“They’ve just started, it’s actually my second day here – sorry your name is Kilgrave?”

“It’s British, you’ve heard of it.” Toning the man’s British accent was a demanding demeanour, while his eyes stared back at her as though expecting a specific reply. A devilish delight sparked a slight twinge in his smile, watching as she appeared to change her expression completely.

“Oh right, of course, I’ve heard of it before actually.” Karen uttered, carefully putting down the staple gun on the desk as she stood over it. Her eyes darted back to him, now plagued with a new cause for anxiety. “Matt hasn’t answered his phone, are you sure he’s okay? What kind of accident was it?”

“Hit and run, but he’s okay. For a blind man he’s surprisingly capable.” Now approaching the desk, the man in purple smiled at her, reassuring her slightly as he still kept his distance. “But also, for a blind man, he has good taste in secretaries.”

“Well, I sort of employed myself after they helped me out.” She chuckled gently, flattered by the charming smile of Kilgrave, his brown eyes captivated by her beauty.

“A pretty blonde, smart and charitable…” The charm of his voice slipped away as his eyes devoured her beauty with an uneasy fascination. Karen’s flattery slowly began to fade away too, noticing the weird lingering look in his eyes. “Come here and stand here, so I can have a look at those eyes…” He muttered, his voice carried across the air and promptly followed as she heard him.

Wandering around the desk, barely paying attention to the uncomfortable resistance clambering away in the back of her mind, she paused directly in front of him. The instant she stood before him, she found herself frozen. Unable to remove herself from the spot she had stopped in, now admired by Kilgrave who ran his cold soft hands over her ears, brushing away a strand of straying blonde hair.

His nails gently stroked her cheek, unnerving her slightly as he stood in pure joy. Behind her eyes was a growing discomfort, a squirming plea of escape, though nothing else quite demonstrated that. Staring into her blue eyes one final time, he leant forward. His soft hands now felt coarse against her skin, before clutching onto her waist.

With a single instruction, he had his lips locked onto hers, tasting her flavoured lip balm before pulling back with a gleeful grin.

“There’s something I need to attend to – I dabble in… art, and I have a good friend who scouts it for me. But I’ll be back, so be ready for when I am. Don’t tell anybody I was here, understood?” Karen nodded her head as she felt a new sense of agency over her body. She almost collapsed against the table as she felt a control over her legs, while her eyes watched Kilgrave wander out from the office. Her mind conflicted over her emotions.

As she wandered back around the desk, she dropped back into her seat. The image of Kilgrave resonated through her, like an irritating but numbing pain that lurked in the corner of her mind. Even as she reached for the envelope, which had prompted an unnerving cause of anxiety before, now her attention was split.

“Did you see that guy in the hallway?” Foggy laughed as he shut the door behind him, his abrupt voice pulling her out from a daunting series of anxious thoughts. Once her eyes looked back to him, something appeared to stop her from replying. Like a block in her throat or a guard in her mind, nothing quite let her reply as she intended. “I wish I could pull off a purple suit like that.”

Foggy’s hair flopped untidily across his face, while his tired eyes with black bags beneath and hints of bloodshot, stared back towards her. Clutched in his hand was a coffee cup, though he knew caffeine wasn’t going to help his condition any time soon. “You know the whole ‘let’s stay out all night’ thing? How about next time we skip the part with the eel?”

***

As the day edged into night, with Matt and Foggy busied by the gift of Mr. Healy’s case, Karen found herself strangely unable to leave the office. Moonlight burst through the clouds, lining the clouds, and the obnoxious yellow streetlights flickered on. With each passing hour, she found herself wanting to throw her warm coat over her and hurry home, except the lingering image of Kilgrave in her mind forced her not to; kept her stuck to her seat, waiting for him.

Eventually, as Karen found herself anxiously waiting and Kilgrave’s hold over her began to slip away, she caught sight of a passing shadow through the blinds of the office. Through the dimly lit hallway appeared the silhouette of a man she had been ready to for hours; the man who the very thought of had restrained her to the office.

“What a day!” Declared the man as he flung open the door of the office, the force of which fluttered the paper sign etched across the door. Cltuched in his hand was an elegant selection of purple flowers, which had a scent and appearance of an expensive bunch. His face seemed calmed by the sight of Karen, calmed almost – though, little did Karen know, his satisfaction derived from having dominion over her. “These are for you.”

“They’re… beautiful,” Almost speechless by the gesture, she graciously accepted them, noticing a small price tag of an astounding number which she couldn’t quite comprehend. “Hold on, I think we have a vase through here.” She noted, hurrying through to the small kitchen space that had collected their dirty mugs and glasses over their day of busy work.

With running water filling the vase sounding in the background, Kilgrave slowly approached the desk, curiously glancing down towards the opened envelope that had played on Karen’s mind all day. Leaning over towards it, he caught the few words requesting her to join for a meeting, to sign legal papers and to resign.

Grasping the letter furiously, he stormed through on through to the small kitchen area of the room. Rage bristled in his mind, seethed through his predatorial gritting teeth and resonated in his eyes.

“What is this?” He questioned aggressively, scaring Karen slightly as she slotted the flowers into the water-filled vase. “Tell me!” Declared Kilgrave, anger still toning his voice despite trying his best to calm down.

“They wanted me to go in and sign some things that I’d keep quiet about the Union Allied stuff, after that Ben Urich wrote about it in the papers.”

“Bollocks!” Expelled Kilgrave angrily, almost spitting as he slammed down the envelope on the kitchen counter. “You shouldn’t have to sign anything, not after what they did to you.”

Karen glanced back for a moment, confused as to how Kilgrave knew what had happened to her. Strangely enough, it was the second time her unknown court case was mentioned that day. Stunned, she stared back to the man, unnerved and uncertain how to respond as she carefully placed down the flowers on the counter.

“Well, I’m hoping to speak to that journalist – hopefully get to the bottom of all of this.” Dismissing the disturbing sense of confusion that lurked over her shoulder, Karen wandered past Kilgrave through the tight space of the kitchen. Her eyes locked with his for a brief second, noticing the dark tint of evil flickering in them.

Watching as the blonde woman darted across the room and retrieved her coat and handbag, stuffing the newspaper article into her pocket as soon as she could, there was an undeniable twitch to Kilgrave’s smile. He saw Karen the same way he saw Matt, a token, a commodity. After all, he considered the elusive power of the grip was tantalising enough to keep people attracted to him without a hold on their mind.

“I booked us a table at Saterre, I hear it does good French food – and, of course, a hotel room.” Grinning, Kilgrave noticed the nervous switch in Karen’s face as his plans for the night unfolded. Clearly discomforted, Karen stuttered and stumbled over her words, the sight of which provoked a sadistic joy in Kilgrave’s eyes. “You’re coming with me, and you’ll have a wonderful night.”

Wandering around the desk, Kilgrave ran his coarse hands across her face while a dark smile resonated in his eyes. Karen felt her anxieties seemingly vanish, or at least shut away deep as Kilgrave’s words informed how she thought.

“I remember they did a segment on Saterre on TrishTalk – I wanted to go and check it out for myself.”

***

As the morning sun rose over Hell's Kitchen and hundreds of busy workers flourished around the city like bees working collectively across their hive, Karen found herself abruptly awoken by the slamming of the doors. Her body jolted up, finding herself only covered by the duvet while a harsh cold breeze scurried through into the room.

Her memory was blurry and indistinct, though she could recall certain parts of the night. A sinister devilish grin written across Kilgrave’s face remained prominent in her mind, while vague occurrences of events she couldn’t piece together, as though someone had entered her mind and altered her memoires. Laid over a mirror was a red dress and old golden necklace, while her clothes from the night before were tidily folded over the chair.

“I don’t really feel like doi-”

“Get on the bed.” Rang an indistinct voice in the far reaches of her mind, as memories of the night prior seeped through a floodgate of emotions kept firmly away from her consciousness. Nervously clutching onto her clothes and putting them on, her eyes fixated on the time, confused as to why the man she was with had left so early in the morning.

Perhaps he worked… except she could recall his voice telling her he was unemployed, though gifted. “God no, not like a magician.” He smirked when he had said that, amused himself by the underwhelming connection she had made. “Something more powerful, which is why I want to help you, Karen. A beautiful woman like you shouldn’t have to put yourself in danger of corrupt corporations, and we both want the same thing…” She couldn’t recall anything else, though the faint caressing of the beautiful yet expensive red dress was enough to provoke those vague memories.

As she stumbled through the room, wandering into a small lounge, she noticed a maid, furiously scrubbing a red stain from the carpet.

“Excuse me, where am I?” Karen asked, vague answers jumbling around her mind as she watched the maid cleaning the stain with all her might.

“At the Hotel Plaza, miss. But if you don’t mind, I have to clean this carpet until you can’t see there was a drop of wine.” Explained the woman shakily, glancing back up nervously. She almost seemed terrified of Karen, unnerved if she had remarkable powers like the man in purple.

Smiling gently, uncertain how to respond, Karen politely waved as she wandered out of the room. A daunting feeling of a nagging voice in the back of her voice forced her to wander somewhere else. She knew she needed to go to the office – or attend the first day of Mr. Healy’s case in court, yet something urged her elsewhere. A voice with a British accent clambered it’s way through her mind, seeping it’s orders like hooks on her mind.

“When you wake up, find this Ben Urich and tell him to meet us tomorrow. Oh, and make sure you’re back here by six o’clock tonight.” The resonating voice of Kilgrave seeped through her brain, almost infecting every thought she had with his slimy and revolting breath; the gritted teeth and dark eyes.

***

Encountering Kilgrave the morning after Matt set Karen’s life on a slightly different path than in your universe – Mr. Urich’s too. Not only would the pair meet a day earlier, as Karen found it impossible to defy the niggling voice of Kilgrave clawing away in the back of her mind, but the events that led to their discovery had changed massively too.

No auctions or scouring documents or men in masks with vital information was needed to aid their discoveries. Ben Urich, like anybody else who had met the man in purple, first found himself in discomfort around Kilgrave. Curious and terrified, before finding his mind would change rapidly. He listened and agreed, helped the man in many areas of their investigation.

One day later, after another blurry night of repressed memories by Karen and on the day that James Wesley allied himself with the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen – Kilgrave would bring the pair to an entirely new discovery.

***

Saint Bénézet Retirement Care was more like a hotel for the elderly wealthy enough to live in comfort in their final years. It’s walls were a mix of white wood paneling and a calming yellow wallpaper, lined with golden décor and lit by fancy silver lamps attached to the walls. The carpets were freshly cleaned beige, while fancy cabinets were scattered around the hallway.

Ben straggled behind Karen and Kilgrave, feeling envious of the people around him. Elderly men and women in ill-health, in wheelchairs or with crutches and IV bags. Many looked confused or intrigued by the arrival of new people, fascinated by the sight of the world beyond. All Ben wanted was to put his wife somewhere like this, where the hospitality was remarkable and the healthcare was well-attended to. Perhaps, he thought, this Union Allied story was enough.

Creaking open a particular door, Kilgrave welcomed Karen and Ben to the surprise he’d led them upstate for. Bursting through the windows was the midday glow of the sunlight, lighting up stray dust particles that floated around the room. In the fireplace was a collective of coals and burnt woods from the night before, while a couch sat unused by the elderly woman in a wheelchair.

“Talk to her.” Whispered Kilgrave into Karen’s ear, smiling as he ran his hand down her back. Ben watched from behind, now beginning to notice it – the immediate compliance. The convulsion to follow his orders – although, he couldn’t quite believe it was a feasible idea. But considering a green monster raged through the streets of Harlem and aliens had fallen through the sky years earlier, it was plausibly less obscure.

“Excuse me, hi.” Karen uttered, waving slightly as she wandered across the room, smiling gently towards her. “We were just looking around and I thought we could ask you some questions if that’s okay.”

“Well, I’m not sure I can be of much help.” Softly spoke the woman, trying to pre-emptively lay out her words in her mind. “I’ve been here ever since my husband passed and my mind slips more often…” Glancing down to her fiddling bony fingers, she felt the weight of her head as she looked down weigh down on her feeble body slightly.

“Do you… um… do you like it here?” She wondered, unknowingly following Kilgrave’s instruction to talk to her. Her question was met with a weak smile as the woman glanced back up. Her eyes lit up with a slight joy, as though not often given any kind of attention.

“Well when I was younger we lived in this horrid little apartment, just me, my husband… and my son.” Her voice quietened as an image flickered violently in her mind. “I remarried twice since then… but you know what they say, third time’s a charm.” She chuckled gently and quietly, attempting to dispel the lingering image that haunted her.

Ben wandered around the room, curious as he noticed the flicker of anxiety in her eyes, a replaying dreadful image in the back of her mind. Sitting beside Karen, he glanced across towards the woman, knowing there was something deeper.

“I’m guessing you kept his name, Mrs. Vistain?” Ben wondered, noting the name on the door as they’d wandered through. “My wife always said she’d keep my name if I passed.” Painfully ignoring an image of his wife that flashed in his mind, he smiled back towards the woman, noticing her idly drift her attention away.

“I didn’t want to keep his name…” She muttered indistinctly, her memories caught elsewhere. “He drank, you see. So angry at the world… I could bear the punches, because… because I thought I loved him. He had this allure about him sometimes… the way he… the way he held me was nice.”

“Mr Vistain hit you?” Questioned Karen worriedly, placing her hand on the elderly woman’s, her blue eyes burning with panic as she glanced back towards the frail old woman whose memories were jumbled.

“Arthur? No, no. I loved Arthur because he was kind… but William… William wasn’t so kind.” She muttered, replaying so many memories that had lingered and lurked in her mind – recollections she’d have preferred to forget in their entirety, yet the cruelness of her mind forbade it. Perhaps it was karma, the universe's revenge for creating the monolith of a man she did.

Ben turned back around to Kilgrave, unnerved almost by the slight glimmer of amusement etched across his face. “What is this, huh? How is this woman relevant to Union Allied?” He whispered viciously, his distrust of Ben fuelling his frustration as he spoke. Kilgrave rolled his eyes as he looked back to Ben, sharing the same frustration as it seethed through his teeth.

“I found the man behind it all,” Quietly, Kilgrave held Ben in curious suspense, before realising his voice ever so slightly so that Mrs. Vistain’s faint hearing could catch onto his words. “Wilson Fisk.”

Mrs. Vistain glanced back across the room in absolute shock, almost terror as they set upon Kilgrave. Much like anyone else, she could sense evil on him, like it was a bad smell trapped in the fibre of his clothes, or a mark left in his evilly gratified eyes.

“Who are you?” She uttered, now capable of holding her own as she grew increasingly untrusting of the man draped in purple, and his associates who had followed him in. “Where’s James?”

“The funny-looking bloke with the glasses and the shit suit? He’s busy, helping take down a man we’re after. A very dangerous man, who has hidden in the shadows for years and only now is he beginning to weed his way out.” Sauntering across the room, Kilgrave knelt down. Their eyes locked for a moment, a devilish grin splattered across his face as he stared back into hers, revelling in the anxiety that toned her eyes and flushed her frail skin a pale white. “Wilson Fisk.”

“Get out!” She yelled suddenly, pushing her wheelchair back slightly in outrage.

“Wesley said you had dementia, that sometimes you weren’t with it. But I’m curious to know if my powers can fight against that, unlock memories you generally struggle with…” Curiously staring at the woman, his eyes fixated and unmoved as she retorted and reacted, he considered his next words carefully. “Tell me about Wilson Fisk and when he killed his father – tell me his weakness and his flaws.”

Mrs. Vistain felt the memories flood back to her, only briefly enough to let her tell the story. The entire history of how her son crushed his father’s skull with a hammer repeatedly. The splatter of blood across his face while rage burst against the drunken man , who had only seconds prior hit her repeatedly. She explained how she disposed of the evidence and ensured Fisk’s involvement was unquestionably removed, framing his father’s enemy.

But just with a few commands, the secret Wilson Fisk had held close to his heart so many years ago was now set free upon the ears of a journalist, secretary and a strange man whose heart burnt with pure evil – not truly understanding the consequences of her words.

“How… how do you do that?” Ben wondered as Karen continued the conversation with Mrs. Vistain alone. Kilgrave had a streak of eager joy in his face as he passed Ben, interrupted as he had head for the door. Ben, however, was fascinated and terrified at the same time, yearning to understand how Kilgrave had possessed her to confess memories so coherently.

“Not too sure.” Kilgrave sighed, shrugging his shoulders as he passed Ben. Flickers of painful memories surged through his mind, images of his childhood strapped to chairs and wires integrated to his skin. An experiment, a toy for his parents. Looking back to Mrs. Vistain briefly, he felt that rage against his parents extend to her – just as his parents created a monster, so had she.

Leaving the room for a moment, requesting peace as he pretended the story of William Fisk’s murder was too heavy for him (despite having caused worse himself), Kilgrave immediately searched for someone who could help him; seeking out anybody who could fulfill his sadistic joy, before his eyes fell upon a young man. Dressed in a nice checkered sweater and neatly ironed trousers, the man politely and quietly spoke to the patients that littered the corridors.

“Oh,” Muttered the man, suddenly noticing Kilgrave with shock, having not expected to see him as he peered his head upwards. “Is everything okay sir? Are you looking for someone?”

“Yes, but you’re probably going to wish that someone wasn’t you.” Stated the man, calmly and collected, provoking a puzzled expression from the young doctor who stood before him.

“Wh- What does that-” Stuttering with confusion, the doctor found his words abruptly interrupted by Kilgrave once again, whose smile glistened across his face.

“When my friends and I leave, I can’t have Mrs. Vistain being alive on my conscience. Too many dark souls taints my view of this world. So once we’re gone, you will crush her skull with a hammer, then discreetly hide her body somewhere nobody will find it any time soon, and then sow your mouth shut so you can’t tell anybody.” Whispered the man, carefully observing the hallway as elderly patients passed them, unbothered by the strange appearance of the new man.

The horrid image of Kilgrave’s instruction lingered in the man’s mind, seeping its way into the dark corners of his mind, almost dormant until they could be brought back.

Although, it was only a matter of time until he watched the three leave Mrs. Vistain’s room and the clambering voice of Kilgrave’s British accent would force him to enact the twisted demands Kilgrave had forced upon him.

***

You are already aware of the events that proceed Kilgrave on his exit from the Saint Bénézet – as he would take Karen out for dinner at Niku – before demanding they find the chef who worked at the Italian restaurant that had stood in it’s place prior.

The next day, Kilgrave would interrupt Matt Murdock’s confrontation with Fisk, before fleeing and his identity exposed to the world. Leaving Kilgrave now alone in Matt’s living room, as Karen and Matt stood nervously and terrified by what he would say and do next.

*Present Day*

“Shit!” Kilgrave declared, jumping up from the couch before kicking the coffee table in front of him. The leather of his shoe creaked, bellowing through Matt’s ear as he heard a slight crunch of his bones. Karen glanced nervously towards Matt, while her rising heartbeat signified her anxiety at that moment. “He must have had cameras in the penthouse that Wesley didn’t tell us about. Bollocks.”

“It’s okay, honey.” Karen reassured him, wandering towards him as she rested her hand on his shoulder. “We’ll figure something out… we’ll keep you safe. Matt could represent you, legally.” Nervously turning back to Matt, lying as she attempted to comfort the man, she felt her hand trembling as she rested it against him.

“I’m not worried about the law, you stupid cow.” Kilgrave expelled frustratedly, throwing her arm away as he sauntered across towards the kitchen angrily. “If he’s exposed me on TV, then- then I’m screwed! Jessica knows I’m here; she knows I’m here and I haven’t figured everything else I need to…”

“Wait- Honey?” Matt interjected, dismissing the issue that plagued Kilgrave’s mind at that point. His head jumped between Karen and Kilgrave, expecting an explanation, though he’d already figured it out previously. The cologne and perfume and her hesitance to say his name.

Karen sheepishly scoffed as she approached Matt, unsure whether she detected worry or jealousy in his outbursting voice.

“Well, um… Kilgrave is the man I’ve been seeing – but you can’t be angry about me not telling you. After all, you’re the man in the mask? The man who saved my life?” Matt’s panic dissipated as he was confronted by her sudden questions, asked with a ferocity of outrage, while hundreds of other questions flared through her mind. “I mean, does Foggy know? Are you working for Kilgrave? Are you faking being blind?”

“No, Karen – it’s… it’s sort of difficult to explain. I have heightened senses like I can hear and smell and sense things far better than anybody. Foggy doesn’t know – he can’t know, Karen.”

“But you’re a lawyer Matt! A good, good, lawyer. You know this vigilante stuff is a crime.”

“The legal system doesn’t stop everybody… It doesn’t stop people who are smart about what they’re doing, who plan out what they do and hide from the law.”

“Like you?” Karen promptly wondered, without question. “Look, I’m thankful you saved my life. I really am – but you know that this is dangerous.”

“It doesn’t matter either way, unless we deal with this crap!” Yelled Kilgrave, slamming his hand down on the table in a sudden fit of rage, demanding the attention of the room. “There’s a woman out there who will be out for me… a woman who wants probably wants me dead. So please, for the love of God, shut up, go sit in the bedroom and don’t move for an hour, while I figure out how to deal with this bullshit!”

Chapter Text

New York is a cesspit of scumbags and cheaters. No matter what that multiverse-pervert says, there’s nothing interesting here. People are shit and for some reason, this city attracts them; whether that’s the green monsters in Harlem or the junkie down my hallway.

Everybody has demons and everybody has a history. All the bad shit they do weighs on them eventually, lingers on their conscience – but the ones I get paid to catch, just don’t care yet. But they will, once it’s over. Once the cheating ends and they’re alone with their own thoughts – that’s when the guilt will hit.

Then they’ll spend every night wishing they could change things. They’ll feel themselves waste away as the guilt consumes them until they’re sat on a fire escape in the middle of December in the cold and watching the spouse of the woman you killed under the devil’s influence, feeling nothing but regret and grief and disgust and-

Jessica…

***

Jessica jolted upwards to the sudden buzzing of her doorbell. In a confused dazed, with a spilled glass of bourbon layering her desk and sunlight barely escaping through the shut curtains, she glanced back across the room. Staring through the small hallways which led through to her door, she noticed a silhouette through the blurred glass pane of the door, only slightly noticing it was a woman. Blonde and nervous – though that was obvious by the constant rings of the doorbell.

“I’m coming! Jesus Christ.” Jessica grumbled, wandering across the room towards the door. Her tired drowsiness began to wear off, though the hangover from the night prior was still yet to reach it’s peak.

Storming towards the door, with rage resonating in her agitated march towards it, she now could just about make out who it was – somebody she didn’t want to see. As much as Jessica would have preferred to ignore the doorbell and resume her drunken slumber, she was now awkwardly caught in the view of the blonde woman – though distorted by the glass.

Thrusting the door open, her eyes fell upon her adoptive sister. Donning a red coat and a floral scarf, a whiff of wealth followed her – though it was likely the free sample of an expensive perfume she was gifted after she aired it on her show. Jessica stared back towards Trish, agitated at the mere sight of her – though her frustration was quickly ignored, as Trish barged past.

“I’ve been calling you all night – were you passed out?” She questioned, frustrated as she wandered further into Jessica’s apartment. Her eyes glanced down to the spilt alcohol and the clasped shut windows, before turning back to her adoptive sister disapprovingly. Through the cascading sunlight and the lights breaking through from the hallway, Jessica could see the seriousness in Trish’s eyes. A sense of panic quivered her lip while sincerity resided in her expression.

“I might have fallen asleep at my desk after a long night of work,” Jessica replied defensively, slamming the door shut as she wandered back into her apartment. Dragging open the curtains, she turned back around to Trish, feeling her irritation fade away at the sight of the resonating alert in Trish’s eyes. “Did someone die? What is this?”

“Just- look.” Handing her phone over, Trish’s hand trembled. Her eyes peered down to the image of Wilson Fisk standing at a podium, staring back down at news reporters who eagerly listened to what he had to say. Instinctively, Jessica stared back towards her adoptive sister as to question why she was being forced to watch the news report, though Trish’s eager and panicked state interjected her questioning.

Before long, as the tall man with the booming voice and bald head continued to deliver his speech, Jessica felt confused. Baffled, as to why Trish had barged into her apartment in the morning urgently panicked, ordering her to watch a man explain an attack on his life.

“This man, who’s face and description has been provided to the authorities, is the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen. Under the alias ‘Kilgrave’-” The penny dropped for Jessica, she stumbled backward and felt Trish’s phone collapse from her hand. It’s loud smashing against the ground, interrupting Fisk’s speech, was indistinct to her as she fell against her desk.

She could hear his voice again. The uncomfortable, horrible, disturbing voice. His grotesque face and his dark soul clouded her mind. Purple flashes filled her mind as she felt herself relapse under his control, feeling his words seep into her mind and his darkness bind her body. Everything he did and everything he made her do, returned to her mind within seconds.

Her heart pounded as she fell against the desk, her breathing erratic, feeling a panic attack beginning to kick in. While Trish hurried towards her, trying to comfort her, Jessica focused her mind on the only advice she knew could help.

“You want to do it. You know you do.” His slimy voice echoed throughout her mind, ringing in her ear almost like he’d leant over and whispered the words directly into her ear. A chill shot down her spine and a trembling in her hands indicated the paralysis of fear that consumed her.

“Main Street. Birch Street. Higgins Drive. Cobalt Lane.” Whispering quietly, her mind was cast back to her childhood home, fixating on the four road signs. It was the last place she felt truly safe, where she didn’t fear men in purple suits or Trish’s alcoholic mother in some way. Home was safety – a place she could never go back to.

“Jessica,” Now hearing her adoptive sister’s voice, she turned back around, panic still resonating across her room. Her hands trembled, utterly terrified of what was happening before her. “It’s okay. He seems preoccupied. Don’t worry.” Trish stated, trying her best to reassure Jessica as she fell into her panicked state.

“If he’s back, then I need to get away. Far away.” Interjecting the silence and disrupting the comfort Trish was trying to give Jessica, she darted across towards her bedroom. Flustered and panicked, ignoring the clanging heels that followed behind her, she retrieved a suitcase and plunged it down on the bed. Actively blocking out that voice, she tried everything she could to keep herself busy.

“You can’t run away. If he’s back, you’re the only person who was able to get away. You can help take him down.” Though her efforts were valiant, they were ultimately futile. Opting to stand in the way of the suitcase, Trish locked eyes with Jessica, frustrated and terrified. “You don’t have to face him again – but from I know, you make a kickass private eye and you can help this Fisk guy find him.”

“I’m not a hero. I can’t swoop in and save the day from this asshole! Nobody can.” Jessica shouted, pushing Trish aside lightly, as to not hurt her anymore than she intended. Her sister grumbled and rolled her eyes, stumbling slightly as her heels struggled to land on the ground properly.

“This isn’t about heroism, Jess. You know more than anyone how dangerous this man is – literally, more than anyone. He has slipped up and revealed his face and name and now the entire city is on the lookout. You know who he is, what he does, what he likes and how he acts.”

Jessica glanced back to her sister, the blonde of her hair illuminated slightly by the morning sun that broke through the window. The silence that rested before them wasn’t enough to disrupt the beckoning sound of honking cars and people shouting. Dogs and children cried and sirens screamed. New York still unchanged.

“I know it’s a lot to ask,” Trish jumped forward as she watched Jessica’s bravado finally slip away. Hope sustained within her as she watched her sister pause, dropping a pair of jeans into the suitcase and staring forward frustratedly. “But if he can survive a bus crash and escape without anybody realising? New York knowing really isn’t enough to stop him.”

“Why does it have to be me?” Jessica shouted, a mixture of pleading sorrow and frustration resonating in her expression as she marched towards her wardrobe again. “There are far better people equipped for this!”

Despite her protests, she knew that Trish was right – that if anybody even had a chance in stopping Kilgrave, it was her. Though she clung onto the hope that she was wrong – that somebody else could take up the mantle of defeating Kilgrave. After all, it wasn’t too long ago that the Avengers battled across New York or S.H.I.E.L.D crumbled.

“Come on, Jess.” Trish uttered, undefeated as she looked back to her sister. For a moment, a brief silence rested amongst them. Trish’s eyes stared back to Jessica with unweathered optimism, still hopeful that her sister had fight in her, meanwhile Jessica’s hesitation was deteriorating at every slight glance.

“I hate you.” Grumbled Jessica, storming through to her office. Each footstep trembled the ground slightly as she marched towards her desk, infuriated by Trish’s persuasion. Across Trish’s face was a glimmer of relief as she followed Jessica through the room. She watched as her sister sat down and pulled her laptop closer, beginning to search for the first step in her investigation.

Fisk was the obvious starting point for Jessica, though a quick search for information brought up nothing. Despite a media storm surrounding the man, he almost seemed like a man who had never existed. Even information in the reports and articles were scarce, proving nothing useful for her to use.

“Do you know a way I can talk to this Wilson Fisk guy?” Glancing up suddenly, she had hoped Trish would have contacts or information that could help her.

“Nope.” She quickly replied, confirming Jessica’s fears. “Before last night, nobody knew he existed.”

“Just like Kilgrave....” She muttered quietly. It was almost as though Fisk’s reveal had dragged a new layer of evil from under the lies and corruption of the city. Kilgrave, for all intents and purposes, was likely the real Devil of Hells Kitchen, but Fisk was no angel in the matter. Nobody hides their entire personality from the world without fear of something to be uncovered.

Staring back down at a news report detailing the situation, Jessica felt disheartened by the diminishing chance it seemed they could stop the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen. Kilgrave’s face, despite being slightly blurry, was splattered across the page. A constant reminder of who the man was. Seeping into Jessica’s mind was his voice, she felt a purple glare teeter over her and a presence beside her, though she ignored it.

“Jessica…”

***

Sunlight glared through the window of the tall skyscraper, shimmering through the blue cloudless sky and bursting through the large windows, while it’s light and heat covered the bland and empty lobby of the 54^th floor. Besides a few scattered plants and a black sign that hung behind the secretary’s desk, reading: ‘Hogarth, Chao & Benowitz LLP’, there wasn’t exactly anything interesting to distract your attention. In fact, if anything screamed corporate and greedy lawyers, it was this room.

Jessica had her mind set on one thing – finding Hogarth. With Trish unable to help her, she was already limited in her contacts. Fortunately, her second option was still just as well linked as her sister – lawyers seemed to know anybody, or at least had the freedom to find anybody they wanted.

Wandering past the secretary, Jessica headed down a small flight of stairs and down a corridor. Immediately wandering away from the lobby, the blazing sun’s heat was lost, and instead, the hallway of offices was colder than she expected. Her eyes glanced across the various doors, though she quickly found the door she was looking for.

Twisting the doorknob, Jessica watched as Hogarth’s secretary jumped to her feet. A tint of her red lipstick had stuck itself to Hogarth’s lips. Her dress was slightly crumpled at the bottom and her face was filled with enormous guilt as she glanced back down to the lawyer beside her.

“I guess you still haven’t learnt to knock.” Commented Hogarth, with a façade of nonchalance to hide the guilt and anxiousness that had passed over her in those few moments. “But come inside. Pam, get me the files on Osborn, please.”

Grinning slightly as Hogarth’s pretty and notably younger PA hurried out of the room shyly, embarrassed slightly by being caught, Jessica turned her attention towards Hogarth as she sat down.

“I don’t expect this is a social visit.” Hogarth noted, looking back up to Jessica rather disappointed, waiting patiently to hear Jessica list a series of demands and request difficult cases to follow up. Although Jessica could sense the expectation Hogarth already had, she retain some sense of calm.

“I need to speak to Wilson Fisk.” Stated Jessica, staring back to Hogarth sternly. “I can’t find any contact details and I assumed, a man as secretive as him, must have lawyers you know.”

Hogarth didn’t speak as soon as Jessica had finished, opting to analyse the woman for a moment. She stared curiously, trying to decipher what Jessica wanted with the man whose identity was only revealed that previous night. There was a silence that rested in the room as the eyes of the pair fixated on one another.

“You do know that Fisk’s identity only surfaced last night, right?” She asked commented, finally replying. Jessica nodded, an impatience in her eyes as she did so. “So you also know it’s not exactly easy to contact him and, even if you could, he doesn’t seem too interested in freelancing P. I’s.”

Jessica rolled her eyes, detecting the condescending tone in Hogarth’s voice – likely still reeling from Jessica’s rejection of the job she was offered a few days prior. “I know the man he’s looking for.” Holding restraint on her brewing frustration, Jessica stared down to the lawyer. Behind her, the city raged with life and the sun glared through the sky.

“The man who can control people?” She scoffed in disbelief. “That’s a police matter, I’m sure you don’t need to talk to Fisk.”

“I know him, Hogarth.” There was a slight change in Jessica’s voice and a new glint in her eye – was it pain and torment, the first sign of any real emotion other than hungover irritation? Proceeding her statement was a quiet hush, Hogarth contemplated why Jessica would seem so invested in the situation, before recounting the snide remarks Jessica had made about scumbag men who manipulated their wives into divorces or their employees into acts that HR would never approve of.

Recalling all those facts was enough for Hogarth to realise the history Jessica had. Although she didn’t believe this ‘Kilgrave’ was truly powerful, she accepted that he had some manipulative effect.

“I will see what I can do.” She muttered, almost pushing past a natural hesitance. Jessica weakly smiled, almost thankful, though it vanished within a few seconds.

“Good – otherwise I’ll tell your wife you’re sleeping with your assistant.” She noted, almost jokingly as she turned back around towards the door. Swinging the door open with a suppressed force, as to not pull it from the doorframe, she was met with the young blonde assistant, who sheepishly looked away from Jessica’s glance.

***

Kilgrave leaves a scent everywhere he goes. Not a literal one, but a stench of horror and discomfort and regret. Walking around Hell's Kitchen, knowing he was lurking somewhere, meant you can notice it. You can notice the shit he leaves behind.

Although now, everybody knows about his shit. His face was aired on national TV, plastered in every newspaper, every news article. But Kilgrave is tricky, he doesn’t need to operate in person. If he wants something, just a single order can make you his slave.

I pity the woman who he takes next. I saw him on bad days, when things weren’t going well. I remember the things he did – the things he made me do, just so he could relieve the anger building up inside him. Now, though, he’s living in a constant state of terror – he could be caught at any moment, and it could be over.

At least he knows how it feels now. To feel a hand on your shoulder and a breath on your neck. A voice whispering in your ear and that foul aroma of pain.

***

“Jesus, Malcolm,” Commented Jessica, watching as her junkie of a neighbour stumbled into the elevator. It was almost 10 am, his nose sniffled and his eyes red. Jittery hands and unphased eyes – it didn’t take any further questions to assume he was still high, or still reeling from being high. “Does your dealer only meet you at 10 in the morning? Because I hear you every day at this time.”

Glancing back towards her, there was a slight glimmer of hesitance before he spoke. Something suppressed the words he’d intended to say, like a mental blocker restricting the truth. He merely grunted, not paying her comments any attention before the doors opened.

“Look after yourself.” There was a sincerity in her voice as she stormed out from the metal doors, not giving the man any more attention. Her leather boots slapped against the ground as she strode along the hallway. A scarf swayed in the gust of wind her hurried footsteps made, before eventually opening the door.

She could feel the chilling bite of the nippy air, while the honking cars and constant chatter filled the world around her. Pulling out her phone, she stared down at a small map she’d prepared before – with one place in mind.

It had been three days since she’d asked Hogarth for help, time which she had used to investigate how Kilgrave survived – after all, now there was a certainty. She was looking for possible clues, but glaring vacant gaps in files and documentation. It wasn’t a matter of if he survived the bus crash, but instead how.

Amidst her investigation, however, she now found herself directed towards the Kingpin. Wilson Fisk had agreed to meet the freelance P.I, though still unsure if she would be of any assistant – or whether she was an opportunist seeking to take advantage of the distressing situation. Nonetheless, her valiant efforts of attempting to contact him directly through lawyers showed a determination he doubted many untrustworthy opportunists sought.

She found herself wandering along the stairwell and hallway to Fisk’s penthouse, escorted by two men with a coiled earpiece each, which ran down their necks into their black and iron suits. Their shifty eyes glanced back to her a few times, dubiously keeping her in check with each piercing shot of their eyes. Jessica was smart enough to act carefully amongst the two men, noticing the pistols holstered to their hips, though she still couldn’t contain the temptation of sarcastically smiling towards the men every time their heads pivoted to fixate their eyes upon her.

The penthouse was large and spacious, the expected modern simplistic style. Besides white couches and silver lamps, the living room area was particularly empty. In fact, with a brief glance around, the only thing that differed from her vastly unfurnished and undecorated apartment and Fisk’s penthouse was simply wealth. Though Jessica knew she could never live in something so empty, with so much space and so many areas to hide.

Once she sat down and politely accepted the glass of water offered to her, she turned her attention towards a hanging painting. She stared at it curiously, before dismissing any fanciful notions she had of it, realising it was genuinely just a splatter of shades of white. Staring at it felt disturbing, and nauseatingly captivating. Something captured her attention and clasped onto it, even though she felt a swelling dread overwhelm her.

“What does it make you feel?” Asked a sudden, calming, booming voice from behind Jessica, dragging her attention away from the large empty painting. Now her eyes fell upon Wilson Fisk, a bald man, dressed dapperly in a white suit. His face was tricky to read, though there was a sophisticated façade evidently hiding something deeper.

“Dread.” Jessica admitted, surprisingly with little sarcasm or bitter humour in her voice. “You?” Her replying question was toned slightly with her usual sarcastic, while her mouth twitched with a  slight smirk, resisting the urge to mock the artistic questioning of a blank canvas.

“It makes me feel alone.” Fisk stated, stepping forward as he admired the painting. “I hung it in my bedroom, it was the last thing I saw at night, but now I feel it deserves more appreciation here.” Jessica stared back to the large lurking man confused and skeptical, trying to understand him further before speaking. “Miss Jones, how do you suppose your private investigating can help the capture of this man? I doubt, how ever good you are, you’re not well versed in men like him.”

For a brief moment, Jessica literally bit her tongue to stop her from talking, feeling a sneering twitch to her smile almost comment on the truth. She’d encountered Kilgrave in ways he could never understand – would never want to understand. He was fortunate that all he got was fingers in casts, as opposed to a scar on her ear and years worth of trauma.

“I know Kilgrave.” Stating the truth felt unsettling and unnerving, though for once she felt confident somebody didn’t doubt her. Fisk was now intrigued, fascinated as he leant forward, itching to learn more. Without uttering a word, his eyes told Jessica his burning question. “He kept me like a pet. A prisoner. An attack dog.”

Now Fisk tilted his head in confusion, his analysing eyes questioning how she could be used to attack. She was scrawny, almost malnourished. The most threatening thing he could see was her attitude, which wasn’t exactly terrifying and more likely infuriating. Although he didn’t pry any further, noticing Jessica’s own hesitance. People in the world had abilities beyond comprehension, Steve Rogers or Bruce Banner was examples within themselves of the strange phenomenon of abnormalities in people (let alone the growing rumours of ordinary people with superpowers).

“But he died – or should have died – in January. He lost control of me and was hit by a bus. I’ve been trying to figure out how he survived, but he’s smart enough to not leave a paper trail.” Jessica explained, resisiting the growing anxiety that surged through her mind. For a moment, she could feel the lingering presence of Kilgrave over her shoulder, his breath and piercing eyes. “I can help you find him – because I know him, better than anyone else.”

Fisk stared at the woman, a growing smile contrasted his cautious eyes and unphased expression. “I’m still curious why you have chosen to seek me out. Surely with your knowledge, you would better assist the police.”

Jessica could sense his curious probing, his obvious questions that pried further into her intentions. After all, they both knew that the police were better off with Jessica’s insight than he was.

“Kilgrave uses people. He takes what he wants and never leaves a trail. Most of his victims are dead, or unaware of his orders. Which means we’re both the only survivors to remember the damage he did.” For a brief moment, her eyes glanced back down to his bloodied and casted fingers, a slight smirk resting upon his face. “I know what that asshole used me for, but you? There’s a reason he came after you and another reason why he kept you alive. But you wouldn’t expose him if you were helping him, so what does he have on you?” She questioned, staring back scrupulously, probing into the details of the man’s life.

Fisk smirked daringly. This P.I, scrounging at the very lows of Hell’s Kitchen, was smart and cunning. It was obvious she was aware of the finer details of the story. Nobody else had yet questioned Kilgrave’s motive, except now here she was, interrogating that one curious element to Fisk’s report of events.

“You’re an intelligent young woman, Miss Jones.” Diverting the topic, grinning with his eyes as he stared back down towards her, Fisk pushed himself to his feet. “I advise that while you help me locate Kilgrave, you don’t step out of line.” There was a demeaning and unnerving tone in his voice as he stared down towards the woman, warning her with his careful eyes. Looming over her, the hulking man grinned slightly, reaching out his bloodied, casted hand before realising the futility of a handshake.

Jessica didn’t respond immediately but instead smiled cautiously. The rabbit hole of Wilson Fisk and Kilgrave was deepening, and she had only reached the surface.

“Nobody is talking about the other man,” Noted Jessica, neither rejecting or accepting Fisk’s cautious offer. Instead, her comment surprised Fisk slightly, who was intrigued to hear the topic change. “Kilgrave offered to do things for me in exchange for my obedience – well, he never said those words, but that’s what he wanted. A good deed to convince you he’s not in your mind, controlling your every thought and action.”

Fisk raised his eyebrow, learning more about the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen with intrigue. “The man he was with didn’t want to hurt me, but he did intend to stop my aspirations to better this city.” Swerving his words around his thoughts like a true politician, Fisk had helped Jessica find a new avenue of investigation. The man in the mask was the connection to all of this, but the question of his identity didn’t seem to be an easy one to divulge in – especially since Fisk remained silent about the vigilante’s attacks on the Russians.

“Now, I apologise, but I have matters to attend to.” Stated Fisk, pushing himself up, bowing his head in a courteous replacement of a handshake. Leaving a young sprightful man in a grey suit to deal with Jessica’s matter of pay and any questions she had left, Fisk wandered out from the room. Heading off to deal with ‘the Bishop woman’, though that had very little significance to Jessica.

***

Working for a man like Wilson Fisk isn’t exactly my intended career choice. I know he’s up to something shady, his fingers in pockets – when they’re not bloodied and wrapped in casts – but it’s my best route to Kilgrave. The best way to make sure he pays for everything.

Chapter Text

Working for Wilson Fisk, even as a freelancer, isn’t exactly light on my conscience. There’s a horrid stench of corruption noticeable from a mile away, but it helped me find information quicker. The man in the mask was my only lead so far, and Fisk pointed me in the direction of some petty criminals who had been stopped by the masked vigilante.

Turk, a low-life trafficker who now considered a new line of work as an arms dealer instead, explained from a hospital bed that the masked vigilante caught wind of an operation at the docks of Hell’s Kitchen. Before Kilgrave, the vigilante had some kind of personal attachment to Hell’s Kitchen then. It was home – which narrowed the search down in some respect.

If Kilgrave was gone, then so was the vigilante – but I don’t expect either to stay. So, now, all I have to do is track down a masked vigilante.

***

As Jessica pursued her only lead, investigating the history of the masked vigilante within Hell’s Kitchen, she slowly uncovered a history of sightings spanning years. The masked vigilante was celebrated and condemned in old Facebook posts and blogs, though nothing quite relevant to be dredged up by local media. She wasn’t exactly surprised that the New York Bulletin was busier focusing on the aftermath of three helecarriers collapsing into the river over some man in a mask fighting petty crime.

Although, unbeknownst to the private investigator, Kilgrave was still held up in Matt Murdock’s house. Her investigation, while slowed down by the lack of leads, was unable to prevent his actions in the present. In fairness, she had no way of knowing where Kilgrave had wormed himself into, like an insect seeking refuge in the dark cesspits of New York.

His acute attention to detail made it incredibly difficult to track him down. With no qualms about torturing witnesses with a single instruction, he could erase any trail left behind. If he was covert and attentive enough, he could wander into a police station and still remain a fugitive to the law.

Except, he didn’t. Besides early trips out in the morning, he ensured he was locked inside Matt’s apartment at all times. Scheming, manipulating. Matt and Karen were locked in their seats until Kilgrave needed either one. Toys for his pleasure and desire, satisfied by Karen’s body and entertained by tricks he could play on Matt’s senses.

Hell and the Devil had made Matt’s apartment their humble abode.

It wasn’t long until Matt and Karen’s abrupt disappearance had become noticed. Three days had passed and the office for Nelson & Murdock remained empty. Cold and desolate, the office was unnerving for Foggy. How he’d long for one of Karen’s bad coffees and gentle smile, or Matt’s stick propped against the wall and his quick quips.

The fourth day prompted Foggy to head over to Matt’s apartment. Enough short phone calls and resistant replies had passed him by – not only did they have clients to find and a business to run, in an office that already cost too much to rent, but he also needed his friend back.

Delivering an irritated knock on the door, Foggy waited patiently in the corridor. It was grungy, light glaring through a dirtied window and the door opposite Matt’s chipped away with a number of heavy slams. Footsteps scurried around the apartment inside, audible enough as barely anybody was awake or in the building at 11 am on a Wednesday.

Now Foggy was suspicious, mostly hoping the situation was a woman. At least that way, Matt was just embracing his good fortune with the ladies, as opposed to there being a real-life danger that had dragged him out of his normal life.

Hushed tones sounded, before a pair of footsteps wandered away from the door. Matt cautiously opened the door, leaving it slightly ajar, just enough to poke his head through to the corridor. Immediately, Foggy noticed a series of cuts and bruises across his face, while a battered and fake smile peered back towards him.

Instantly Matt noticed the cologne. “Uh- Hey, Foggy! Are you okay?” Nervousness cracked in his voice. Exposing his head to the outdoors for the first time in days provided him with a sea of unexpected sounds and smells and tastes in the air – truthfully, it was nice to taste air that wasn’t so stale and clogged up with Kilgrave’s obnoxious cologne.

“I thought I’d come and check on you – I haven’t seen you in days… We have a business to run you know.” Foggy stated, but his words only received a sheepish chuckle and mutterings from Matt, who couldn’t quite think of a reply on the spot. “But what happened to your face? Have you been fighting with your cupboards again?” That brought a slither of a smirk to Matt’s face – the first sense of amusement he’d felt in almost five whole days.

“I’ve just not been feeling great. You know how it is… winter and the cold coming round.” Unconvincingly lying, Matt provoked a larger suspicion in Foggy, who stared back towards his best friend curiously. Matt could hear Foggy’s rising heartbeat, worrying him slightly. “I should-”

Noticing the veering to a goodbye, Foggy immediately interjected. “How about I make you something? Or we could go get some lunch?” He hoped those propositions would appeal to Matt, give them a chance to speak beyond a small gap in the doorway, though Matt’s anxious expression seemed unmoved by the idea.

“Put that yellow dress I like on.” Called out an arrogant voice, toned with a British accent a sense of cruelty. The demand was met with an instant following voice a woman, which Foggy found familiar but far too quiet to put to a face.

“Who’s that?” Foggy asked, now completely uncertain as to what was happening. Already his mind connected the day Matt first avoided the office and the morning after the news of a sinister British man had been exposed by Wilson Fisk. Foggy’s heart raced faster with panic, as Matt didn’t give an answer. “Matt? Who is it?” Foggy continued to probe, noticing something forcing Matt to remain silent.

“Just hold the fort for me for a few more days.” Matt started, his hand clutching onto the door handle as though an instinct was driving him away from Foggy’s questions. “Oh, and if you see Father Lantom, tell him I’ll be back soon for another confession soon enough. I have a few demons to get off my chest.” Foggy saw Matt’s thumb point inside the apartment as he began to shut the door, freezing him to a point.

Burning throughout his mind were hundreds of thoughts, though he could only really consider one realistic situation. Matt’s hints weren’t exactly the enigma code, but they were cryptic and vague enough to bypass Kilgrave’s instructions. Foggy, of course, was puzzled why Kilgrave would take refuge in Matt’s apartment – why he wouldn’t get out of the city or stay somewhere nice. But if he’d learned anything in his life in Hell’s Kitchen and observing cases, people never think to check the run-down houses of the city for priority scumbags.

Wandering down from the steps, his mind bristled with thoughts on his next course of action. His first fleeting idea was to call the police, alert them that the criminal they were seeking was held up in Matt’s apartment, but he knew that was risky. Secondly, passing as an even briefer idea, he considered barging inside himself, confronting the man himself – though he knew he wouldn’t stand a chance against a man who could make any demand a reality.

Instead, whether it was fate or just a final resort that wouldn’t risk Matt’s life, he hunched in the hallway. With his phone, clinging onto the WiFi Matt had installed in his apartment, clutched in his hands, he hurriedly looked into the Kilgrave case.

Skimming through the articles, he now noticed something new. Something peculiar. Rather than a suggestion to contact the police, was the phone number and address of a private investigator. Alias Investigations. His interest peaked and desperation reached, Foggy took note of the address and headed downstairs.

Although Foggy had no way of knowing, Matt stood close to the wall as he listened to his best friend leave. The sounds of Foggy’s footsteps and the diminishing hope he posed were far less painful than the sounds he had to endure from his bedroom.

***

Sheepishly glancing back to Jessica Jones in his smart grey suit but barely-noticeable unironed shirt underneath, Foggy smiled hesitantly back towards the private investigator as she stared back towards him. Her eyes screamed an irritated attitude, a smell of lingering bourbon and heavy footsteps declared her irritation even before she’d swung open the door with sudden ferocity.

“I’m sorry, I’m not taking new cases at the moment. If your wife or husband or whatever is cheating, you’ll have to get someone else.” Jessica plainly stated, staring back towards Foggy before almost shutting the door on his nervous face.

“I’m not here for a new case!” He abruptly shouted as the door slammed shut. His sillouhette stared through the blurred glass and a few beads of sweat profused down his forehead. A nervous chuckle sounded moments later as Jessica slowly edged the door open, curious to see what he had to say. “It’s about Kilgrave – I think I know where he is.”

Raising her eyebrow, Jessica gestured for the long-haired and messy-yet-presentable man to continue. She was interested enough to credit him a few moments of her time, considering him not a waste of time like Malcolm who’d knocked on her door a few times in the past few days. Wandering back through the short hallway and into the office, which was really just an empty living room with a desk sat across the room, she indicated for Foggy to follow her inside.

“My friend and I are lawyers,” Said Foggy, courteously shutting the door behind him before stepping foot inside the office. His eyes jumped around the room curiously, noticing the lifeless décor (and he thought his office was bare). “Nelson & Murdock? I doubt you’ve heard of us – but the day after Fisk held that conference, Matt and my secretary didn’t show up for work. Then today, I visited Matt, he seemed off. Recluse. And Matt’s not usually like that, at least not like that. But inside I heard a British guy, telling someone to wear a dress for him.”

Jessica’s attention now peaked. Hairs stood on end as she recalled her days with Kilgrave, a deep breath replacing her usual mantra of four street names. The mention of a British guy giving orders was enough of a red flag as to where Kilgrave was, but the mention of the dress threw her into a frenzy.

“Did he mention what kind of dress?” Disregarding everything he’s spoken about before, her mind cast back to the days she was kept captive. Kept isolated. A putrid and obnoxious yellow stood in contrast to the man’s purple suits which he seemed insistent on wearing, as though living by some colour scheme proposed in a comic.

Foggy stuttered as he tried to recall the details, nervously stammering as her eyes glared back into his. A swirl of panic and impatience consumed Jessica as her brown eyes fixed onto the man who stood across the room from her. “Uh- Yellow- I think. Yeah, yellow.”

That was enough confirmation for Jessica, as she felt a swarm of terror seize her. Trembling arose in her hands as she held her head in her hands for a moment. Quietly muttering street names to herself, she calmed herself down from the onslaught of haunting memories that plagued her mind like scheming poltergeists.

“You said your secretary hasn’t been in.” Jessica finally muttered, peering her head back up towards Foggy, whose face expressed his unspoken concern. “Has she had a boyfriend recently? One she won’t talk about too much?”

“You’re not suggesting that he’s her b-” Jessica raised her eyebrow, answering his question before it had even been spoken. “Shit!” He declared, pacing around the room, running his hands through his hair. “But if she’s with him, he’s going to make things worse for her. She was recently framed for murder – drugged by the company she was working for, Union Allied.”

The name rang a bell for Jessica, though she couldn’t quite place it. Although it had some association with Fisk in her mind, either something spoken to him or a loose file left open on her visit, she couldn’t quite tell – though the detail was irrelevant at that moment.

“Kilgrave preys on vulnerable women. He’s an asshole. A predator, and how predictable is it that the universe gives him the fucking ability to manipulate people.” Jessica’s voice was reflective as she spoke, though her intention primarily attempted to drag any attention away from herself. Foggy watched curiously as she took a deep breath, wanting to understand how she knew so much about him, without prying into the pain that evidently haunted her.

“Jesus… We have to do something, right? We have to save Matt and Karen!” Foggy seemed outraged as he hurried towards Jessica frantically. “I’m guessing you call Fisk, tell him you know where he is and he sends some kind of secret army in?” Although Foggy expected his idea to be holy unrealistic, he clutched onto hope that something could be done with such swift grace.

“I don’t want Fisk involved yet.” Jessica commented quietly, promptly pouring herself a sip of bourbon. Her eyes quickly met with Foggy’s angered and noticed the angered glint in his eyes. “Don’t look at me like that. You came to me – not the police or Fisk himself. My investigation, my rules. The moment Fisk catches wind of this, it’ll be cops and SWAT teams swarming your buddy’s house. And Kilgrave will happily kill them both as a threat for the cops to stay away. Is that what you want?” Jessica barked at Foggy with frustration running through her veins, entirely enraged by the doubt in his eyes.

“Sorry,” Foggy nervously replied, daring to not look in her eyes as guilt and fear propelled his attention away. “So, how do we save them?”

“I’ll stake the apartment tonight and let you know what the plan is tomorrow.”

“Is it a good idea to wait that long?” Foggy wondered, glancing nervously, now not wanting to express any more doubt than necessary.

“I need as long as it takes you to find a strong sedative.” Jessica bluntly stated, wandering across the room as she placed the bottle of bourbon away in her cabinet, before retrieving her camera. Foggy stared back towards her blankly, confused for a moment as to what she was talking about.

“You don’t have a drug problem as well do you.” He raised an eyebrow as his eye flickered towards the locked cabinet which appeared to only contain a variety of alcohol bottles. Jessica glared at the shaggy-haired lawyer, almost offended by his comment.

“I have two leads on this case, one is that masked vigilant. And through the second, I found out how Kilgrave survived a bus crash – but he refused any anesthetic. Sat through an entire surgery awake, but I know him. He’s cruel, but he’s not into sadism, which means it’s got to be our best weapon against him.”

“How am I supposed to get a sedative enough to put a man to sleep?” Foggy quickly retorted.

“I don’t know, and I don’t care.” Dropping her camera into a brown satchel that hung down from her shoulders and round her side, Jessica’s impatient hurried walk through her apartment indicated her intention to leave. Through a series of glances, her message for Foggy to leave the house was promptly adhered to, as the shaggy-haired man scurried along through the corridor and into the hallway of the building.

Distant shouting and moaning bellowed throughout the grungy halls, while Jessica’s neighbour Malcolm shifted out of his apartment. His skin was flushed and his eyes glazed over as he cautiously shut the door from behind him. His eyes danced around the building wearily, glancing back to Jessica before immediately perving his head the other way. Clutched in his hand was his phone, held upright slightly as though covertly taking a photograph as the pair left the building.

“Tomorrow night.” Jessica peered her head towards Foggy, sceptical as to how helpful he’d be in the matter. Either way, studying Kilgrave was far too time-consuming, and she was aware of the toll it would have on her.

Foggy nodded his head, and relayed all the information Jessica needed, before the pair parted ways.

***

Matt Murdock’s apartment wasn’t her first destination – in fact, it wasn’t even her second. Kilgrave being so close made her sick. His presence held her in a throttle, the mere thought of him provoked an abundance of anxiety to seize Jessica. As Jessica retrieved Trish as backup, almost ashamed to ask for her support in the matter, she then proceeded to investigate Karen’s apartment.

Withered along the floor was a streak of police tape that had been left behind, trodded over, and ignored by her various neighbours throughout the complex. Dingy walls and flickering lights set the haunting tone of the corridor before Jessica wandered through into Karen’s apartment. Mail piled up against the door, most of it simply being junk and flyers, almost catching the door as it was wedged open.

Besides the evident lack of furniture and signs of homeliness, the most noticeable aspect of Karen’s apartment was a medical smell. A dark patch stained the carpet and there was almost a damp outline of a body crossing the floor of the living room. Dust layered the tables and surfaces, while light scarpered through the few windows that allowed it. The air was damp and stale, and there were barely any signs of anybody even living here.

Passing through to the bedroom, Jessica noticed the neatly made bed and scattered clothes across the bed. Nice clothes – date clothes probably. Wandering further into the room, she noticed small post-it notes scattered the wall and a file of information about Union Allied. Nothing exactly told her about Kilgrave, until she wandered past a patch of dirt clothes sat next to a laundry bin. Curiously reaching down and retrieving a red dress, she promptly noticed a faint cologne that had ingrained itself in the fibres.

Those few particles of smell threw her mind back to months ago. Purple clouded her vision and the sharp British voice of Kilgrave almost stabbed her ears. She shut her eyes quickly, purging the memory from her mind as she repeated the name of four street names. She pushed herself against the bed as she dropped to the floor, realising the fate that had been bestowed upon Karen Page.

“Jessica? Jessica are you alright?” Trish wondered, panicked as she raced through to the bedroom. Her eyes glanced down towards her sister, watching as a short-lived panic attack reached its tail end.

“She’s with him Trish. I recognise the horrible cologne that stuck to her clothes – it almost took me two weeks to get rid of that smell!” Throwing the dress onto the floor, her hefty boots slammed against the floor. She marched into the living room, almost blinded by a sudden glare of the sun. “He’s probably doing what he did to me to her. She’s already been through enough!” Gesturing towards the imprint of a body that almost acted as décor in the featureless living room, her panicked heart raced faster.

“We’ll stop him. Don’t worry.” Although her words seemed certain, her eyes were unconvinced. Reassuring Jessica failed as she rested her hand on her shoulders, anxiety still taking its toll on her. “

“I’m in way over my head here. I can’t even catch his scent without panicking.”

“If you leave that woman with him, you’ll only make matters worse for her. You know that we need to get her out of there as soon as possible.” Sternly staring back to her sister, Trish realised that her reassurance wasn’t enough to set her back on track. These relapses were inevitable, triggers would provoke this swathe of dread, but the thought of Kilgrave still pursuing his twisted ways was enough to drive her forward. “Now come on,” Trish stated, heading for the door, “Let’s go stake out that apartment.”

***

People always comment on how beautiful New York is at night, how the city that never sleeps shines. But truthfully, New York is even uglier at night. The skyline might glow, but it’s when the streets are filled with drunks and drugs and scumbags. Men preying on women alone, gangs lurking in dark spots, or traffickers preparing to pounce.

Our focus? Watching Kilgrave as he strutted around the living room of Matt’s apartment, while a blonde woman and dark-haired man in red glasses sat frozen on the couch. Even from afar, Kilgrave’s obnoxious purple suit was clear to anybody.

That cockroach was still squirming for life, but now just hiding. I thought seeing him would trigger something, but he looked pathetic. He looked tired and broken and soon, I knew he’d be stopped.

***

It was roughly seven o’clock when Foggy finally arrived at Jessica’s door. His hands trembling, sweat almost dripping from his head, as he stared back towards her. Shakily handing over a bag which safely held another paper bag of a single needle of a sedative, he combatted any questions to the source of the drug with a hesitance to admit.

Jessica, not wanting to pry any further into Foggy’s clear racing anxiety, darted back into her room. Her boots clanged against the wooden panelling of the ground as she wandered towards her desk, which displayed a collection of photographs taken the night prior. Situated in the centre of the photographs was Kilgrave wandering out in the early morning, the sun was barely reaching out over the horizon and the air was evidently nippy.

“He leaves at 9 in the morning, leaving Matt and Karen indoors, which is when we’ll go in and get them out. After 12 hours, they’ll be free of his influence. Once we’ve saved Matt and Karen, we’ll alert Fisk and the cops.” Jessica seemed certain of her plan, which gave Foggy hope as he observed the photographs of Matt’s windows. He hoped this hell would come to an end soon enough – that Jessica, and even Wilson Fisk, would put an end towards the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen.

“If this doesn’t work,” Foggy started, inevitably succumbing to the pessimistic doubt that seeded itself within his mind. “I don’t know what I’ll do. Nelson and Murdock have a few clients already, and I’ve been trying to handle them all… but without Matt, or even Karen-”

“When we save them, you know they’ll still be affected by everything that’s happened, don’t you? Kilgrave fucks with your mind. Screws with your world.”

“Did something happen- with Kilgrave?” Foggy knew better than to ask personal questions, feeling that poking his nose into Jessica’s life was too far, though he wanted to find an answer behind her pain. The cause for the pauses she took sometimes when she saw Kilgrave’s face or heard his name.

“Yes. But quite frankly, Foggy, that’s none of your business.” Almost immediately, Jessica shot down Foggy’s curiosity with a glare in her eyes. “If Kilgrave finds us, we’ll use this.” Jessica waved the paper bag, hearing the needle shift around inside as the bag crumpled. Foggy glanced over nervously, almost ashamed of the drug he’d collected under such hasty conditions. “Your friend, Matt, he doesn’t have any special powers, does he?” Jessica wondered, retrieving a picture of the man in the red glasses.

Casting her mind back to the footage, she considered the masked vigilante for a moment. The mask that covered his eyes, surely would have obscured his sight, yet he seemed so perfected in his skill and agility. Despite the clear fact Matt was blind, the world was crazy enough that a blind mind with heightened senses wouldn’t have been the strangest thing to have detailed the world.

“Besides attracting women with a smile and being really good at hearing through walls? Not really.” There was almost a jealous tint to Foggy’s smile as he quipped about Matt’s luck with women. “Why?”

“Kilgrave was a man in a mask. A vigilante. Which begs the question, what happened to the man in the mask. Either it’s your blind friend beating the shit out of sex traffickers… or Kilgrave’s done something to him…” Jessica was aware of which of the two possibilities she had hoped was true, but she also knew Kilgrave disposing of a vigilante that linked him to a crime was far more plausible than a blind vigilante with an agile and impressive track record.

Foggy glanced dumbfounded, fitting the suggested idea that Matt was a vigilante into his knowledge of his best friend. Although they had known each other for years, Foggy always felt that something was kept hidden. Secrets purveyed Matt’s life, operating in the dark, while he paraded around as a charming and successful lawyer.

It explained the injuries Matt had endured after gruelling nights or weekends. “It can’t be Matt.” Foggy dismissed, feeling tempted to consider it a real possibility. “Matt’s always been about justice. Helping people. Making sure that the bad guys go-” He paused, feeling that every sentence uttered plunged his mind deeper into believing the almost crazy idea.

Jessica raised her eyebrow as her eyes flickered back up towards the shaggy-haired man. “Everybody has secrets.”

“I don’t!” Foggy retorted quickly with an array of sincerity and defensiveness. “I’m open book to Matt. He’s been my best friend since college!”

“If he has powers or even just genuine skill that lets him beat the crap out of scumbags – you can’t blame him for keeping it a secret.” Jessica considered her secrets, wondering which ones would apply. The thought of Kilgrave and Luke and Reva filled her mind. Guilt consuming every part of her as a sudden flash of memory seared through her mind.

“But why drag Karen into it? If Matt is a defender at night, what does she have to do with it?”

“Kilgrave doesn’t know when to stop.” She muttered quietly as she retrieved the photograph. Staring down towards it, she remembered everything. Every day and act and order. They had imprinted on her mind, his voice a red-hot branding burning the surface of her mind. His slave. “No.” She stopped, dismissing those thoughts. “He knows when to stop, but he enjoys it. Breaking you.” Correcting herself, she dropped the photograph on the table.

Foggy was caught with his mouth just about open, words ready to leave his mouth, when a knock at the door interrupted him. The shaking glass of the knocked door rattled, and both pairs of eyes glanced back towards the door. Curiously wondering if Jessica expected company, of which seemed to be two elderly people who whispered to one another quietly, Foggy was met with an equally curious face.

Jessica marched across the room, and through the hallway. Foggy stood motionless, nosily glancing towards the door as she swung it open with an abrupt ferocity.

An elderly couple stared towards Jessica. The old woman was weary and tired, she almost looked jetlagged or as though she’d been deprived of a good night's sleep for years. Her unironed clothes and trembling hands and drowsy eyes were enough to indicate the stress plunged onto her. Meanwhile, her husband was a taller man, guilt occupied him a little less than his wife, and there was evidently a sense of anger behind his eyes. A temper well kept, managed almost out of fear.

“Missing child?” Jessica asked bluntly, staring at the pair irritated. Their eyes glanced to one another, exchanging a shameful secret, before they glanced back towards her.

“Something like that-” Answered the man, though the few words he spoke with had a noticeable accent attached to them. Jessica looked sceptically at the pair, before easily dismissing them both.

“I’m busy.”

“It’s our son.” The woman promptly cried, her accent more noticeable. It was an English accent, which automatically suspended Jessica as she’d gone to slam the door shut. Guilt and shame seized the woman, words stuck in her throat like a cat had clamped her tongue. “Our son is Kevin Thompson – but now he goes by Kilgrave. Our son is the man you’re looking for.” Her weary voice croaked as a slithering tear dropped down her cheek.

Jessica stood, dumbfounded. For the entire time that she knew Kilgrave, she knew he was a heartless monster, but she’d never considered who he really was. Truth be told, she almost doubted he ever had a childhood or parents or siblings or a family home.

After all, you never wonder who raised the Devil.

Chapter Text

I can’t remember the last person I met whose childhood hadn’t been fucked up in some way. Nobody gets through childhood unscathed by something. I always assumed something had screwed Kilgrave up – but hearing it explained by these two weaselly British fuck ups of parents explained everything.  

Foggy felt wheezy halfway through the videos they showed us, but I watched it all. Some part of me felt pissed off with the sick freaks who made Kilgrave the monster he is – knowing that they were responsible for the hell I had to go through – but another part of me was relieved. Relieved to see that son of a bitch suffered at some point in his life, just as much as I had.  

They felt guilt and remorse, but no amount of regret could change the monster they created. Now their creation roamed the streets of New York, destroying lives of people who don’t deserve that shit  

***  

“We- we were trying to help him. Kevin was born with a degenerative neural disease. We experimented with a- with a virus. We didn’t realise what we were dealing with.” The woman’s voice quivered, her anxiety and guilt were nothing but blatant. Her trembling hands and scared face were signs of the regret and guilt that had clearly plagued her for years.  

“I’m not too sure how different things are over in your queen’s country, but this crap? This is nothing but child abuse! Not to mention the unethical practices that violate every careful stage it takes to conduct medical trials. You’re walking into at least ten years here.” Foggy cried out, jumping across the room in absolute horror. His eyes met Kilgrave’s father’s frowning enraged-filled eyes.   

“We did what we did to save our son!” He cried out in defence, his voice old and weary. The rage simmered in his eyes as he glared at the floppy haired lawyer. “Who do you think you are, judging us ?”  

“Albert, stop…” Louise, Kilgrave’s mother, clutched onto her husband's hand. She found herself unnerved by the outburst of anger that consumed him in that moment. Speaking quietly and gently, she glanced back into her husband’s eyes, calming him slightly too.  

“What happened after he got the powers? How did he get the powers?” Jessica interjected, not exactly caring about accusations at that moment in time. Bristling rage was building already, but her mind was fixed on saving Karen and Matt from his grip. As the pair exchanged a glance to one another, Jessica couldn’t quite decipher the emotion etched across their faces. Shame, guilt, fear? It was one of them, or perhaps all of them.  

“We stayed, tried to take care of him… Be the parents we always wanted to be-” Louise was defensive, memories surging through her mind as she recalled the events that had led her to running away from her son.   

“Let me guess,” Jessica interjected amongst the silent pause. “Trying to take care of a screwed-up kid you tortured for years wasn’t easy parenting?”  

While Albert rolled his eyes begrudgingly, Louise glanced towards her. Pleading innocence in her eyes, which now began to tear up. “He would have tantrums all the time. Made us do things… most of the time they were little things, telling us to shut up or lock ourselves in a room. But one day…” Her trembling hand raised to the right side of her face, brushing away some hair. Her face was scarred and burned, healed after some years, but the pain that caused it was clear. Foggy gasped in shock, flinching slightly at the sight.   

Though Jessica stood, rather unimpressed. She recalled the things he did, or made her do. Scars that were both physical and mental, some that still had not healed. In some respect, she considered it karma catching up with two terrible parents – while another felt nothing but guilt, seeing the desperate love they still held for their son.   

“We’ve been running ever since.” Albert quickly commented, not wanting his dear wife to relive the events. Although, already the memories flashed through her mind as she recalled the events that had unfolded that day. “But when we saw Kevin on the news – calling himself Kilgrave – we knew we had to come. Come and help.”  

“Your son’s fucked up as it is. Considering he never mentioned either of you, I can only assume that seeing you will make things worse. For everybody.” Louise and Albert gave a glance between one another, unsure how to reply, as their definition of helping was different.  

“Kevin’s powers a-” Louise’s shuddering voice was almost immediately cut off but an angered Jessica, who slammed her fist down onto the table in front of her.  

“Kilgrave! His goddamn name is Kilgrave. The monster you made is Kilgrave!” There was almost a liberty she felt in screaming his name without the lurking anxiety of the pain he could cause. Without giving that liberty much thought, she was at least relieved that something empowered her in that moment.   

Albert and Louise stared back to Jessica, overcome with shock. Their eyes promptly darted away from the dent Jessica had made in her desk, as splinters of wood fractured out from it. It didn’t take a genius to assume she had some incredible strength, which was impressive enough for a woman as skinny as her.  

“ Kilgrave’s powers aren’t exactly powers…” Louise felt disgusted with herself as she uttered the monster’s name. Throwing her eyes to Albert and trailing her voice, she gestured for him to finish.  

“They may seem like mind control, but his powers are a virus spreading microparticles. Anybody exposed to the microparticles are under his influence. He can’t consciously stop producing these microparticles, so he needs to be rendered fully unconscious, with something like that.” Albert pointed towards the sedative contained within the paper bag. “We want to help in creating a vaccine that will make anybody immune to his virus.”  

Foggy laughed nervously, unsure if their proposition was even possible. Wandering across Jessica’s office and arriving before the pair, he stared at them cautiously. “You can’t make a vaccine to a virus that easy – I did some biology and chemistry classes in college - never told Matt though because I knew he’d get the all the luck – but virus mutate too easily. It’s the same reason they can’t cure the common cold. Plus, even if you could, you’re not exactly scientists with a good track record.”  

Jessica tilted her head to the side briefly in agreement, a slight thought of Kilgrave’s unintentional powers giving fuel for any reason why they shouldn’t be involved in medical trials.  

Except now, both Albert and Louise looked terrified and desperate. Their eyes glanced to one another, before splintering towards Jessica and Foggy. It was clear that their guilt and remorse and driven them both to a pleading desperation, trying to repent for the sins of their son, and even their own.   

“You talk about our son- Kilgrave,” Louise quickly corrected herself as she caught the sharp piercing gaze of Jessica, “Like you know him. Like he did something to you?”  

“Try kidnapping me for an entire year and convincing himself that we were in love.” Jessica left out most of the details in her immediate spiteful response, instantly acquiring nothing but guilt and horror that passed over Kilgrave’s parents. Foggy’s alert and almost disapproving glance was what prompted her to feel somewhat apologetic. “And then, on one horrible night, I walked away.”  

Albert and Louise glanced to one another in a joyful shock. The joy in their faces wasn’t quite sadistic, which only made Jessica far more confused as to why they felt anything positive over the news she’d delivered. Waiting quietly, her frustration beginning to grow slightly, she watched as the pair noticed the slight confusion in her expression.   

“You’ve shown signs of immunity. Albert developed immunity briefly, on a trip down to Brighton…” The mere memory of the seaside trip was enough to send an unnerving shiver down her spine. Something happened, something dark and unnerving that neither could quite explain. Though the guilt in both their eyes was darker. “Trauma and pain can sometimes override his demands. Almost like a mental agent taking charge of the immune system. We couldn’t quite understand it and the immunity was lost over some time.”   

There was some sense of irony as she spoke softly. This frail old woman, literally scarred by her son’s torment, had tortured her son with horrific medical trials for most of his life. She, and the frowning defensive man who clutched onto her arms, were monsters.  

Yet, despite the horror they’d committed, Jessica found some sense of hope in their words. “So, there is a way to become immune?” She wondered, raising her eyebrows. They both nodded their heads, not uttering a word as they watched her mind tick away with some new plan. Before long, her eyes darted back to Foggy, optimistic slightly before she had even spoken.  

“What are you thinking?” He wondered carefully, watching her eyes light up as her mind filled with ideas.   

“Take them to your office – they can work there.”  

Foggy almost jumped in rejection as he swivelled his head and fixed his eyes on her. “I’ve got clients to meet in my office. I can’t have two British people going all Breaking Bad in the other room, can I?” Foggy’s agitation was immediately met with a glare from Jessica, that already expressed her own frustration before she had even spoke.  

“If Kilgrave’s set up some plan B, then Matt and Karen seeing his parent’s is already a risk. Add that onto the fact that if we don’t stop Kilgrave and get Matt away from him, then you won’t have an office to meet your clients in.” Foggy grumbled under his breath, not wanting to admit that Jessica was correct. Although, there was no doubt that she was.   

He nodded his head as began to pass through into the hallway, glancing back to Jessica. Unaware of the single audience she had in that moment, as Albert and Louise wandered away, she took a deep and heavy sigh. Her fear of failure mixed with the looming anxiety of encountering Kilgrave once again. She held out hope that the immunity they suggested she’d developed had remained, though truthfully there was no guarantee.   

“Jessica,” He called out, interrupting her moment of relapsing hope. “We’ll stop him tomorrow; don’t you worry about that.”  

***  

Carefully guiding Louise and Albert through to his office, Foggy took a final glance behind him. The dimly lit corridor was empty and devoid of any life, which was somewhat comforting to know as he secretly smuggled in two criminals. Prosecuted or not, there was no doubting their crimes in creating Kilgrave were indeed that. Crimes.  

Quietly locking the door behind him, Foggy took the elderly couple, who limped and huddled into Matt’s office of their rented-out apartment. Watching as the fumbling parents set up their mini laboratory, Foggy frowned. He stared down at a pile of brail papers they’d moved aside, his mind now fixating on Matt. His mind cast back to the realisation that his blind best friend had been lying to him for so many years about his true abilities.  

“You’re sure we’re safe here, yes? We can’t afford Kilgrave catching us.” Albert turned his attention to the conflicted Foggy, who’s eyes remained fixed on the sheets of brail paper. As Foggy’s eyes darted up towards the elderly man, he nodded his head reaffirming their hope, glimpsing back through the window of the office.   

“Nobody’s coming round anytime soon…” Foggy muttered, defeated as his glance fettered away.   

Louise quietly approached the man, resting her hand on his shoulder gently. The yellow glare of streetlights shimmered across the unscarred side of her face, though her cautious and sincere glance was still clear.   

“Oh dear, what’s on your mind?” Her voice was quiet and calm. Were it not for the present anxiety that filled the room, pressuring them to get starting on finding a vaccine, Foggy almost forgot the monster that she was. She’d almost managed to keep the façade of frail old woman, withered by age and injury. Her voice gentle enough to throw off the scent of the trauma they’d subjected their son to.  

Foggy glanced towards the woman cautiously, uncertain how to express the frustration that plagued his mind in that moment. With a weak smile, fooling neither Albert nor Louise, Foggy glanced back towards her. “My friend has been living a double life for the entire time I’ve known him. He might be lying about everything... or just have hidden something. And I can’t shake the anger off, even despite the fact I know he has a right to his own life.”  

“Have you spoken to your friend?” Wondered Louise, approaching the situation with a loving maternity – which was almost ironic considering her track record as a mother. The shaggy-haired man didn’t respond. His eyes dropped down to the brailed paper and let out a slight sigh, prompting Louise to realise what he was indicating with his shifting eyes. “Oh, I’m so sorry...” Her apology felt sincere, and in truth it was. Although the images of the recordings that had been imprinted on Foggy’s memories still seared and burned, prompting him to distance himself from trusting them.  

“You know,” Albert’s voice arose as he unpacked a specific set of chemicals. They each sat in yellow tubes, rattling around a cardboard box before he dropped them on Matt’s desk. “No matter the betrayal and hurt some people leave us, some people are far more dangerous when they’re abandoned. Even good people.” Something in his tone made it seem as though he pitied himself – as though, for a fleeting moment, he rifled through old memories and felt a reflective sadness on how events transpired.  

Foggy dismissed it. A lingering frustration already bristled within his mind, adding more fuel to that fire would only worsen the situation. As such, he gave in to their sincerity. Throwing the pair a weak smile and a gentle nod of his head, he assumed they were right. After all, for the entire time he had known Matt – or at least the Matt who wasn’t a rooftop-running, crime-fighting vigilante with super senses – he’d been a good man.  

A kind, funny and charming man. Always stood by those who needed help from the law. With that in mind, Foggy considered the situation once again. Darting his eyes around the room, memories flashed through his mind. Their years together bringing him a slight grin to his face. With those in mind, he reconsidered Matt – clutching onto hope that the lies he’d been telling all these years were worth it.  

Foggy patiently stood in the corner, watching as the elderly couple unloaded the various packs of scientific equipment. They whispered amongst themselves, quietly discussing where to put the tubes and petri dishes and microscope. Before long, they had managed to set up a rather lousy – but efficient enough – home laboratory.  

“It’s no Stark Labs... but it’s something.” Foggy uttered, looking around the room with a tone of pessimism tinting his voice as he nervously glanced around the room.  

***  

Sleep almost felt impossible before a day like this. Jessica had spent the entire night tossing and turning, even a brief guilt watch of Luke Cage didn’t settle her anxieties.  

She’d spent most of the night on a fire escape from across Luke’s bar, watching him carefully. She considered speaking to him – in hopes it would calm her nerves. Of everything Kilgrave had her do, it was that night which sat with her the most. Jessica was unsure if it was the fact Kilgrave had her murder an innocent woman for a simple USB, or the fact it was the night she escaped his firm and slimy grip.  

But despite the quivering guilt which seized her, Jessica decided against it. Instead, she eventually wandered home. Hood thrown over her head, hands shoved in her pocket and camera safely clasped around her neck. Her eyes glared down towards the ground, watching as each step slammed against the wet ground, before she eventually arrived at the door of her apartment. She ignored the neighbours – the shouting in the corridor and Malcom’s faint whimpering.  

Enough was already on her plate to start caring about the shit in other people’s lives.  

Sleep was no good. The three hours she did get felt like hell. An almost dry burning sensation dragged her eyelids down. Her throat was dry and the mere piercing glare of sunlight provoked an immediate retraction.  

Wandering around her apartment, Jessica made sure to retrieve the things she knew she needed for the operation. She dropped her phone in her pocket, the sedative kept firmly in the paper bag, scrunched into her pocket. She didn’t quite care for the time when she left – knowing that if she had to wait outdoors for three hours until Kilgrave left, she wouldn’t quite care.  

New York was just as busy at nine in the morning as you’d expect. People flooded the streets, looking almost like insects scuttling around from Jessica’s vantage point. A variety of SUVs and yellow taxis and other black and blue cars clogged up the roads, honking in frustration as the entire city sat in a standstill. Jessica would consider it a sign of good fortune that the world beyond Matt’s apartment was thrown into a chaotic paralysis at the edging towards rush hour, were it not normal for the city.  

As it reached half nine, Jessica watched as Kilgrave strutted out of the apartment. His lips moved in an order towards Matt, though Jessica couldn’t quite make it out. Her eyes darted towards the bedroom, faintly catching a glimpse of Karen in the bed through the slim gaps of the curtains.  

Returning to the busy and flooded streets, pushing through the ocean of people in suits and formal wear as they hurried to work, Jessica’s eyes briefly fixated on Kilgrave as he wandered awa. He kept his head down cautiously, though there was no doubt that his purple suit was an obnoxious attraction. Unbeknownst to Jessica, he wandered through the street muttering ‘you do not see me’, as an attempt to ward off any curious eyes that may recognise the man who was wanted by Wilson Fisk.  

As Jessica approached the doors to the apartment building, she felt a sudden tap on her shoulders. The hand provoked a sudden reflex, as her fist clenched as prepared itself to spin around. Had Foggy not immediately spoke after he’d terrified her, he would have likely been tossed across the street in a sudden striking blow.  

“Foggy, what the hell are you doing sneaking up on me like that?” Jessica retorted angrily, keeping her frustrated voice quiet as her eyes glared back towards the man. Foggy guiltily apologised, having overlooked the intensity of the moment that they had found themselves in. “We go in, rescue Matt and Karen and get them back to my apartment – then we sort everything out afterwards. Okay?”  

Foggy nodded his head in agreement, hoping that the plan they’d concocted worked. He wanted nothing more than to rescue his friends from the creature – the devilish fiend – who had kidnapped them. Held them hostage in their own home, used them for his own deeds.  

Wandering through the stairwell, Jessica and Foggy nervously approached Matt’s apartment. Foggy cast away the seeping memories of Matt moving in – the rather fond memories of his first few days in the apartment, their celebrations of the achievement Matt had made into adulthood. Jessica, on the other hand, fixated on the dangers she was going to find herself stumbling across. There was no doubt Kilgrave had likely set traps – possibly even weaponised Matt and Karen against attempts to escape. Which meant Jessica had to think quick, which was a haste she prepared herself for.  

Jessica forced the door handle with a particular strength, breaking the lock before she wandered inside. Her eyes glimpsed through the entrance of the apartment, which appeared more corridor like as a wall in front of her separated the entrance from the kitchen behind the thin wall. Foggy quietly followed Jessica through the apartment, with their footsteps barely making a sound and their weary eyes catching a glimpse of every small detail around the room.  

By the cleanliness of the living room, it was easy to forget that a man and his two slaves had been cooped up inside for the past week. Yet Jessica had little care for the cleanliness. Ignoring the absence of Matt at first, she darted through to the bedroom. Throwing the sliding doors open, her eyes stared across the large and empty room. Matt’s blindness had led to an apartment almost void of décor, leaving nothing but an eerie emptiness.  

Matt’s large bed, sat in the centre of the room, was home to Karen. Draped in a black lingerie, she rested in the bed quietly. Tears streamed down her face at the sight of Jessica, though her muted voice prevented Jessica from retrieving any answers to what had happened. Nevertheless, Jessica rushed forward and quietly reassured her everything would be okay.  

“It’s okay, Karen. I’m here to save you – so is your friend, Foggy.” Foggy stood sheepishly by the door, not wanting to glance in as Jessica fussed around the room. “Can you get up?” Jessica asked calmly and quietly, though Karen simply shook her head. Her faint whimpers were the only sounds which could escape her painted lips. “That’s fine... that’s okay...” Jessica reassured her calmly, rushing around the room in a brisk retrieval of clothes to attempt to put on Karen.  

Foggy, in the meantime, stood idly in the living room. His eyes now beginning to dance around the room curiously at the vacancy of Matt. His eyes glimpsed around the apartment, before focusing on a rickety wooden stairwell that led upwards towards the fire escape. He carefully watched as a dark corner possibly housed a figure, though his eyes couldn’t quite make out if there was somebody there.  

“Jessica...” Foggy quietly turned away from the shadow, hurrying towards Jessica as he slowly edged towards the stern-faced woman, whose main priority in that moment was saving Karen. “Matt isn’t here...”  

That had been a detail Jessica had missed – one that unnerved her as she glanced back around to the conspicuously empty apartment. She paused for a moment, re-evaluating the plan that she had hoped would have saved Matt and Karen within minutes of entering the apartment.  

“It’s fine – just help me...” Jessica, whose strength usually wouldn’t have failed her, leant over and heaved Karen from the bed. She was draped in blankets and a dressing gown to keep her warm, though Jessica could feel Karen’s resistance as she struggled to get back in bed. “Karen - Karen, wait. Did Kilgrave order you to not move or to stay laying down?” Jessica wondered, recalling the instruction he’d given her a few times. Leaving her body fixed in a single position for hours. Karen nodded nervously, her crying whimpers sounding more alarming as she was pulled away from the bed. “Well then don’t move and stay laying down, but in my arms.”  

Jessica cradled the women, almost clutching onto her like a groom with his newly-wed bride. With the blankets draping down like the dress and veil of a bride, though with the contrasting grim reality that Karen was not in this position out of any sense of love.  

Karen complied, dropping her body into Jessica’s arms, proving relatively weighty as she was carried through the room. But Jessica could cope – she sort of had to.  

Passing through to the living room, Jessica’s eyes darted around the room once again, searching for Matt – but it almost seemed as though he’d gone missing. Jessica wandered towards the window, watching as the street conveniently died down in it’s activity. The traffic and flood of people had passed through the neighbourhood, busying another part of Hell’s Kitchen in it’s wake.  

Passing back through towards the entrance of the house, Jessica turned back around to Foggy, who had resorted to carrying the blankets which ran along the ground. “Look for Matt up there – I'll be back in a second.” Jessica nodded her head in gesture to Foggy, hurrying Karen downstairs as she was wrapped up in the blankets firmly.  

She ignored the confused expressions which darted around the street and instead fixated on a flashy car which sat across the road. It looked out of place considering the blinding billboard up ahead and the run-down brick buildings which distinctly showed their deteriorating age. Sat inside the car was a blonde woman, her head kept low and dark sunglasses disguising her appearance.  

Jessica had been noticed by the room who, at the sight of Jessica rushing out of the building with Karen wrapped up in a blanket, jumped out from the car.  

“Trish! Thank god, you got here in time.” Jessica was grateful, knowing it would have been tricky to rescue Karen in this state otherwise. Trish pulled the sunglasses from her face and opened the back door of the car. Her eyes stared at Jessica in a panic, not quite sure about how she felt lugging Karen’s body into the back seat of the car.  

“Where’s the other guy? The blind guy?”  

“I think he’s still inside – Foggy's looking for him, but I feel like something’s wrong.”  

“What should I do?”  

“Keep her warm – Kilgrave's instructed her to lay down or not move or something, but she also can’t talk.” Jessica shut the car door carefully, before anxiously glancing back up towards the building. “This is way too easy for Kilgrave...” Nervousness toned her voice as she glanced back towards the windows of the apartment. “I think he wants us to rescue her...”  

“Well what matters is that she’s rescued, right? Give it some hours and she’ll be free from his instructions.”  

Jessica nodded, though her reaction was distracted as she stared back up towards the apartment. Something worried her – something glaringly obvious was missing, but she couldn’t quite figure out what it was. Her hands trembled slightly, though a sudden realisation of the plagued anxiety that came across her put an end to that feeling of panic.  

“If we’re not out in ten minutes, I need you to get out of here.”  

“But, Jess, if Ki-”  

“Ten minutes, Trish. I can’t risk Kilgrave getting hold of her again.”  

Chapter Text

The timeline that had now entirely departed from yours, was beginning to intersect in ways quite unimaginable.  Jessica Jones had alerted Wilson Fisk and the police of the situation. Of the rescue of Karen Page and Matt Murdock, from the virus emitted by Kilgrave, and gave them a time to arrive at Matt’s apartment.

All sides of the dispute had intentions and plans that nobody else was quite aware of – though their end goal of defeating Kilgrave and keeping him locked away in a secure facility had aligned perfectly to allow their plot to continue.

***

As Jessica raced through the apartment building and eventually stumbled into the living room, her eyes darted around. Scurrying through the entrance of the apartment, her gaze dropped upon Foggy, who anxiously sat on the couch staring forward. His quivering lips and trembling hands expressed the sheer terror that surged through him before his eyes met Jessica’s.

“Foggy... what are you doing? Where’s Matt?” Foggy didn’t answer, and instead, his eyes shifted between Jessica and the flight of stairs which led up towards the fire escape the stairwell. Jessica’s eyes glanced towards the shadowed corner of the stairwell, before noticing the figure that had provoked a paralysis of fear into Foggy. Stepping from the shadow was Matt, though noticing the identity of the man wasn’t an easy feat.

Matt wore an armour evidently designed for combat. With protective gear around his chest and arms and legs, there was no doubt that he was prepared for any kind of conflict that he may have stumbled into. Fixed to his head was a helmet, with two small horns which pointed upwards. Clutched in his hands were two metallic batons, their glossy tint shimmering under the morning light. Though of all the features, it was the colour which was most distinctive, as Matt stood in the glimmering sunlight that broke across the room, donning a dark-yet-chilling purple armoured suit.

“Matt was just telling me about Kilgrave...” Foggy quietly muttered, his voice breaking slightly as he caught sight of the suit Matt had donned.

“Kilgrave, huh? The man who’s kept you a slave in your own apartment. Made you torture Fisk last week? The man who kept Karen dressed in lingerie and locked in bed?” Jessica’s words seemed spiteful, though her tone was cautious and sympathetic. At any moment, a Kilgrave’d Matt in an armoured suit like this was dangerous, and she knew it was in her best interest to ensure she didn't provoke any violence.

“The Devil of Hell’s Kitchen.” Interjected Foggy, nervously casting his eyes between Jessica and Matt. As soon as Foggy spoke, he noticed the growing tint of frustration marked across Matt’s face and immediately felt regret in even speaking up.

“Kilgrave make that get up for you? Fell like a hero in that, do you?” Jessica spoke with a ferocity, sharp and immediate, unthreatened by him.

“Where did you take Karen?” Matt asked, ignoring Jessica’s words. Somewhere, deep down inside of him, he was screaming for help. He wanted nothing more than to hold Foggy in a tight embrace and apologise for the worry he’d put him through, but something held him back.

“Somewhere safe.”

“Tell me.” His husky voice was persistent and keen, unphased by the lengths he'd have to go through if he didn’t get the information through conversation. Jessica watched him wearily, clearly seeing the pain buried deep. She recognised the look – she’d seen it in the mirror when Kilgrave lurked over her shoulder. A creep, obsessed with every detail of her.

Jessica shook her head and although her face was expressionless, her mouth straight and eyes fixed on the armoured man, there was the tiniest glimmer of confidence. “I won’t tell you, Matt. Not until Kilgrave’s influence is gone.” The terrified Matt, that lay collapsed under the heavyweight of Kilgrave’s influence felt a glimpse of hope shoot through his mind at Jessica’s words.

Though the Kilgrave’d Matt was less enthusiastic.

“If you don’t tell me where she is, then I’ll-”

“What?” Jessica was quick to interrupt Matt, glaring at him cautiously. Foggy’s eyes jumped between them, feeling a slither of terror as they conflicted. “Go on, Matt. Give me your worst threat. Because I’ve lived under Kilgrave’s influence, and I’ve walked the streets of New York late at night myself, I know threats and I know danger and I know assholes.” Jessica was brazen and confident, but her scarred and tortured past resonated in her eyes. While her confidence was no façade, there was some vulnerability as she confronted Matt. “So, go on, what will you do?”

Matt soon realised that Jessica didn't intend on complying with his questions. An unnatural and manipulated action ensued, almost as though something instinctively lunged him forward. Without any realisation of what he was doing, Matt felt his body convulse against his will once again. His firmly gripped fists swung the batons at Jessica, his senses doing the work his burned eyes couldn’t.

As a dark purple baton swang towards Jessica’s head, she ducked, before dodging the second. Cautiously observing Matt, she backed away through to his kitchen, quickly noticing it was a dead end. Matt could, in his mind, visualise where she was. Her panting breath, scampering footsteps, and dodging head gave him an idea of where she was. They were both fast and strong, a conflict ensuing as Foggy backed away. Throwing her eyes frantically around the room, she instinctively stopped one of the swinging batons as it approached her.

Now, with the baton seized in her hand and feeling the panging pain resonate in her palm, Jessica squeezed it. It wasn’t a baton made from the metal you’d expect in lead piping, but there was still some malleability she could take advantage of. She felt the baton slowly crush at the centre, all the while Matt struggled against her grip.

He swung the other baton at her hand, prompting an irritated groan of pain as she retracted her hand from the crushed baton. Matt could hear the creaking of the metal baton, irritated slightly that its integrity had been squashed as though it was nothing.

“Impressive,” Jessica grinned slightly as she backed slowly into the living room area. Her eyes glanced back to Foggy, who stood paralysed against the wall. “How long have you been training? Those heightened senses must be really helpful.” Her eyes now glanced towards a metal pan across the room, indicating something to Foggy, whose confused expression jumped around them both.

“I was raised like this.” He stated, huskily wandering forwards toward Jessica. “I’ve been doing this for longer than you’ve had your powers, Jones.” Jessica paused for a moment, throwing her eyes towards Matt and fixating on his panting breath. He could hear a slight jump in her heartbeat, elevating slightly from the physical activity she was enduring. “Kilgrave’s told me all about you. His love for you. You’re not only the reason he’s done this to me and Karen, but you’re the reason that monster’s alive. You could’ve killed him a long time ago.”

“Matt, that’s not you talking.” Foggy interrupted, still standing from across the room. “You know that’s not how the system works.”

Jessica shook her head, knowing that Foggy’s attempt at persuasion was futile. “Then I’d just be one of the super freaks who got out of control, wouldn’t I? Not to mention just another woman killing her abuser – I’d still get time in prison, even for doing a heroic act.” Even though she knew that Matt remained under the influence of Kilgrave, she felt the need to defend herself.

Matt shook his head, dissatisfied with her reply, before leaping forward. He jumped against the wall and flipped over Jessica, perfectly landing behind her before whacking the uncrushed baton through the air. Jessica, almost as impulse led her to, reached her arm back at his swinging wrist and seized it. She threw Matt over her shoulder, slamming him against the ground.

Matt’s plated armour deflected most of the landing, but it gave Jessica enough time to take advantage. Ripping the baton from his wrist, she threw it across the room. The piercing sound worsened for Matt as it clanged against the metal of the fridge. He felt a ringing in his ears briefly at the noise, groaning slightly at the pain.

Jessica took hold of the second baton, bending it entirely and keeping it barely from snapping in two. Throwing it back across the room, she knelt down on Matt’s wrist, hearing a cracking sound as she did so. Matt groaned, feeling an immense pain centre around his wrist.

“You have to stop this, Matt.”

Matt, however, didn’t. Instead, his free arm swung towards her. His knuckles, encased safely in a metallic glove, slammed into her side, pushing her against the wall suddenly. Panging throughout her was a terrible pulsating pain, her head beginning to ache slightly as she pushed herself back up.

Just as Matt went to swing his fist at her again, he froze. Jessica and Foggy watched cautiously, curiously and intrigued to know what had prompted into such a paralysed halt. They watched, both making sure they were kept out of his reach as he slowly geared his head towards the small make-shift corridor at the entrance of the corridor.

Now, however, Jessica could hear what had caught Matt’s attention. She could hear the leather shoes clapping against the ground, tapping almost in the perfect rhythm with every passing second. Her heart sunk and her hands began to tremble before her eyes caught sight of a purple suit. First emerged the legs, thrust past the wall with an arrogance, as a leather pointed shoe slapped against the ground.

Then emerged a man, who the very sight of brought nothing but terror and fear in her. He was like a fictional monster to her, something that couldn’t quite truly exist. His devilish grin and eyes glared at her, showing no sympathy, no happiness. Just evil. His hands, skinny and pale with the bones just about showing, clapped into one another. Condescendingly, he announced his presence. Almost instantly, his eyes met with hers. There were no words that needed saying, no exchanges relevant or anything that could quite capture either of their emotions.

Kilgrave felt elated to see Jessica once again, to show her that he had survived. He wanted to see the crashed furniture and the damage done to Matt’s armour, though he was rather disappointed to see little of a fight had ensued.

Jessica, however, felt dread. Anxiety and terror informed her silence, while almost throwing her into a panicked stumble backwards. Reciting those four street names would be futile – because there was nothing to protect her mind from. Thoughts were invaded by the sheer sight of him, memories dredged from deep and dark places in her mind. She relapsed into terror for a moment, as her mind recalled the years she spent as his prisoner.

“Oh… Jessica.” His British voice spoke out loud, the very sound of it bearing the glee that shimmered across his face. “It’s really been too long. The last time we saw each other, I was surely a dead man.” Kilgrave's condescending cruelty remained alongside his arrogance, and Jessica felt the fear dissipate. Although it remained, alongside the torturous memories bustling around her mind in recollection of the events that kept her terrified, Jessica felt anger. A rage. A visceral disgust.

“The world would be slightly less shitty if you were.”

“Oh, don’t be like that.” He smiled at her. A devilish grin, entertaining the dark pleasures of unsettling the woman he loved. “I know you love to look through the world with nihilism, but surely, if I was so terrible, your view of this world would be better? After all, you were happy with me, weren’t you?”

“I hated every single moment of it. I wake up every day hating the world even more, and I look at myself and feel disgusted knowing you ever laid a finger on me.”

“You felt disgusted with yourself before I came along, don’t lie to yourself.” Kilgrave sighed, before looking back toward her. “I love you Jessica, but sometimes I have to be brutally honest with you. You’ve never seen this world the same way I have, and I know I can make it better for you.”

“That’s what you call it then, huh? Better? Every time you hurt me, or raped me or made me do something I really wanted to do. That was better? You, Kilgrave, are nothing. A worthless, seedy little man whose only interesting quality was some kind of genetic fuck up.” Jessica glared back towards him, before letting out a loud scoff. She shook her head and almost tried to not scream the bubbling rage that attempted to take control of her. “I hated every moment we spent together, and I would rather die tomorrow than let you take me again.”

She began to approach him, her footsteps drawn to him. Matt threw his arm out, though Kilgrave ordered him to drop it. Kilgrave thrived in the danger, fascinated as he watched her approach him. He didn’t feel the fear he should have, confronted by Jessica and her sheer strength. Instead, his tall skinny body loomed over her, his brown eyes fixed on Jessica as his unsettling smirk remained etched across his face.

“You missed me, Jessica. Missed having someone else to blame for your misery besides your pathetic self?” He glared down towards her with an apathetic expression. Now he didn’t quite care that he was toying with her, hurting the woman he loved. In his mind, he expected he would have him under his control eventually.

“ Being this close to you makes me sick, and that’s just from the smell of your breath.” Jessica discreetly slumped her hand into her pocket, before clutching onto the sedative stored inside. Foggy, noticing Matt’s head cocking at the sound so faint he himself couldn’t hear it, leapt forward and clutched onto a metal spoon. He smashed it against the metal pot that Jessica's eyes had indicated to earlier. His sudden deafening action instantly cast the attention of the room into his direction.

The loud piercing noise was overwhelming for Matt, disorientating his senses as his ears couldn’t fix on the quieter muffled sounds of Jessica’s pockets. Kilgrave’s eyes shot across the room, before screaming louder than the metallic thrumming.

“Silence!” He beckoned, though it was too late to prevent what Jessica had planned. She lunged her hand upwards, driving the prick of the needle directly into his neck. Her careful calculation and precision was followed by a hasty push down of the needle, watching the sedative ooze through into his skin.

Initially, Matt leapt forward to protect her, but he quickly felt his body stagger. A strange sense of liberation, control and autonomy was restored. His head darted around the room as his senses caught onto the collapsing body of Kilgrave, feeling no desire to follow his orders.

Foggy placed down the spoon and raced towards Matt, hoping that the restraints he’d felt lifted were shared by the staggering armoured man. Matt apologised profusely, the only words escaping his quivering lips being a repetition of "I'm sorry!"

Jessica knelt down, smugly staring at the monster. His eyes drooped and his breathing slowed, the world fading to darkness for him. There was something comforting, almost a sense of closure, in watching the sedative working to stop the man.

“What did you do?” Matt asked, feeling his voice speak the words he wanted to speak out loud himself. “How did you stop him?”

“He’s not stopped,” Foggy spoke, staring down at the man as he released from the embrace he had briefly held Matt in.

“You’re right, the asshole still has some time to go until he’s fully stopped. I’ve just knocked him out, prevented his virus from spreading and disconnected the supply to you completely. Fisk should be here soon with the police. They’ve been warned about him.”

Almost immediately, Matt stumbled back. His face, or at least what could be seen under his mask, was filled with outrage and disgust. Both Foggy and Jessica watched him, his voice stuttering for a moment before finally blurting out the urgent question on his mind. “Fisk? You’re working for Fisk?”

Foggy leapt towards his friend reassuringly, “He’s working with the police to find Kilgrave – after all, Kilgrave did attack him.”

“But I went after Fisk for a reason,” Matt stated shakily, throwing Foggy’s hands off from him. “Fisk is behind everything in this city. The trafficking, the drugs, the police, the money. He’s behind Union Allied, everything that happened to Karen is blood on Fisk’s hands, Foggy.”

“I get that Matt, I do, but he’s the only person who could’ve helped us. If he’s really behind this city, then trust me, Kilgrave will find justice in some way and I can sleep at night knowing that.” Foggy’s words unnerved Matt, though he understood the sentiment. Matt still couldn’t quite process the acceptance Foggy had in allowing Fisk to continue, but he respected how, in this scenario, the ends justified the means.

“Don’t worry Matt.” Jessica pushed herself upwards and wandered across the room. “Once this asshole goes down, I’ll help you take down Fisk. But we need Kilgrave locked up, securely.”

“If Fisk and the police are coming here…” Foggy started, hearing a screeching of cars outdoors. A glare of blue and red lights flashed through the windows as approaching wailing sirens sounded. Matt glanced around, panicked for a moment, his head darting around in the different directions of noise.

“Matt, get out of here. Safely, meet us back at my apartment – okay?” Jessica’s panicked state thrust her head around, to the noise, before she abruptly listed her address. Matt memorised it and darted across the room. His heavily armoured boots slammed against the ground, a sound almost merging with the slamming boots of the officers who hurried up the steps. Matt ignored their approach, of course, and instead fled up the flight of stairs which led to the fire escape.

Jessica and Foggy stood cautiously and nervously, approaching Kilgrave’s unconscious body before three armed cops burst through the doorway. Covering their faces were glass shields and heavy rifles were fixed in their arms. They screamed and shouted at Jessica and Foggy, who promptly raised their arms. Jessica, irritated by complying with men's orders, hesitated at first, though Foggy was immediately thrust into a frenzy.

Two scientists emerged in hazmat suits, alongside two doctors wearing similar outfits. While they checked the body of Kilgrave and carried him outside, they were joined by a rather large man. He shook the apartment slightly in his approach, though his presence immediately demanded authority.

“I appreciate your help, Miss Jones.” Fisk bowed his head slightly in respect of her efforts, before turning his head to Foggy. “Mr Nelson, I presume?”

Foggy stuttered for a moment, unsettled by the tall man as he thrust his hand forward for a handshake. “Yes, sir. Most people call me Foggy though.” Fisk raised an eyebrow, almost as if to deter Foggy from relating the man to ‘most’ people. A superiority complex bristled in just a single raise of an eyebrow.

“Miss Jones explained the situation with your colleagues, Mr Murdock and Miss Page. How Kilgrave had savagely captured them and manipulated them into hiding him here. I expect the situation is worse, but I don’t intend on prying for details.” Fisk, despite his demeanour, spoke rather warmly. Like a comforting counsellor, he understood grief and pain. It was almost extraordinary that Matt would even accuse this man of operating behind Hell's Kitchen. “As a token of my gratitude for your help in apprehending that monster, and in deep sympathy for the trauma your colleagues have faced, I wish to compensate all three of you for what you have endured.”

Reaching into his pocket, Fisk retrieved a neatly folded cheque. Foggy nervously took it, his hands quivering as he felt the paper slide into his hands. Opening it up, his eyes fell upon a large sum of money that instantly made this cheque the most valuable thing he’d held. It was almost golden paper, written with gold ink and patterned in gold designs.

Except it wasn’t. Instead, it was merely a cheque with a number way out of his estimations.

“I- I don’t know what to say…” Foggy nervously chuckled as he glanced up, holding the cheque for Jessica to see. “I’ll have to speak with Matt – he’s a bit uncertain about working with people he doesn’t know.”

Fisk chuckled, “So I’ve heard.” He recalled Wesley’s detailing of Matt’s uneasiness and scepticism when he had approached him with Mr Heeley’s case. Before taking the chance to elaborate, Fisk turned his attention to Jessica, and handed over an envelope of money. She glared towards the envelope, peering back towards the cheque and finally throwing her eyes back to Fisk.

“Oh, right. I do the work and I still don’t get a fancy cheque?”

“I thought it best we kept our dealings off the record. Private Investigators of your calibre are a disaster for HR.” Fisk spoke convincingly, watching as Jessica opened the envelope to reveal a cluster of hundreds of dollars. She stared in awe, realising she had enough for rent and fancy bourbon. Even if it was blood money as Matt suggested, she saw no qualm in taking it as now her long term intention was to take Fisk down. “I hope this situation can be handled with care from now on. Mr Kilgrave will find justice somewhere secure, and your information of an airborne virus has aided us tremendously.”

With a nod of his head and a proud smile, Fisk began to waddle out of the apartment. His head peered back to the pair for a moment, an unsettling and confident smile informing his glance, before turning back around. Now he had leverage, his money in their hands. An alliance to help with his project of rebuilding Hell’s Kitchen for a better tomorrow.

***

Kilgrave’s unconscious body was kept sedated, while those handling him were safely protected. They treated the situation like any scientist would when handling an infected patient, except with much more care. Were Kilgrave to awake and they were not safely protected from his virus, then devastating consequences could ensue.

After some testing of his blood and marking of his fingerprints, Kilgrave was locked within a cell. It was white and empty, vacuous and unnerving. If Kilgrave were awake, the vast white emptiness would likely begin a process of insanity – yet here he was, restrained to a bed and unconscious.

***

“I’m not calling him Kilgrave.” Stated one of the guards, smirking slightly as he sorted through the man’s belongings. He checked the pockets of his purple three-piece suit, though found very little of importance amongst them.

“Well, apparently his actual name is Kevin.”

“Oh,” The guard said, scoffing for a moment. “I can see why he’d change it. But Kilgrave?” The second guard shrugged for a moment, rather unphased by the idea that an inmate would change their name to something less unthreatening.

Although, as they spoke and laughed at the arrested criminal, the guard found two items of particular interest. Amongst a collection of coins was a brown envelope, stashed with pictures taken of a dark-haired woman. The two guards stared at the collection of pictures with confused expressions on their faces, though with everything they had seen, these strange photographs of a random woman unaware of their existence were nothing out of the ordinary.

Although, the second item was much smaller. A small paper bag was marked with a red logo, a curved snake-like line etched across the tiny bag, with a small red circle at the bottom. The pair glanced at one another, recognising it for a moment, before ripping it open.

Inside was a cluster of white powder, and it took no genius to figure out the content. The two guards peered to one another, puzzled for a moment. They recognised the package, it had begun growing in popularity, but hunts for its source seemed to diminish the further it proceeded. Cautiously, the guard place it in a clear bag and labelled it, though neither wanted anymore to do with the bag.

Unbeknownst to either, as they began to lock away the other items they had procured, a glaring clue as to Kilgrave’s alliances had been made. Not only had they found a clue to a narcotics investigation, but a ring of notorious secrecy who manufactured the Steel Serpent. People whose workers were made blind and forced to work in a warehouse governed by Madam Gao.

***

The seeds of Kilgrave’s escape had been planted

Chapter Text

Those affected by the differences in this timeline saw some solace in Kilgrave’s arrest. Unlike in your timeline, where Kilgrave never saw justice or official police action, it appeared he would now. But the true aftermath of Kilgrave was still to be felt, as Karen Page and Matt Murdock escaped his clutches. Their minds altered and lives changed.

***

As Jessica swung her apartment door open, applying as little strength into it to avoid plunging the door off its hinges, she watched as Trish stood nervously across in the living room. Clutched in her hand was a warm cup of coffee, steam still spiralling from it, though it appeared she hadn’t even taken a sip in her panicking state of mind.

Jessica passed the bedroom, noticing as Karen was rolled up amongst the duvets. She quivered in the cold, though there was some relief in Jessica as she knew Kilgrave was safely locked away somewhere, bound to face justice for what he had done.

“Jess!” Trish burst with relief and joy as she darted towards her sister, placing the cup down before she swung her arms around her in a strong embrace. “What happened? They’re saying they arrested him on the news.” Trish’s eyes jumped between Jessica and Foggy, noticing a solemn sense of quiet amongst them both.

“Fisk arrested him, but I don’t trust him. At all.” Jessica stated, pulling the envelope of cash out and dropping it on the table. A waft of dust erupted in the crash, while Trish’s coffee jumped slightly. “But he paid well.” Jessica slumped down in her chair, holding her head in her hands for a moment before relieving a heavy sigh.

“Christ, all that for finding Kilgrave?”

“He wanted a P.I – he found a good one and paid her well.” Jessica shrugged her shoulders as she spoke, holding her head up and glancing around the room with a pained regret. “How’s she been?” Abruptly changing the topic, Jessica’s voice became sincere. Although generally, her comments were passive-aggressive or cynical, this time she expressed her genuine concern.

“Tired…. Quiet…” Trish took a deep breath, not bothering to hide the sympathy she felt as it grew across her face. “I don’t know what he did to her Jess, but I think he did what he did… last time.” Trish’s indication to Kilgrave’s abuse of Jessica was enough to spike her heartbeat, prompting Jessica to jump to her feet and set off across the room.

“Karen’s strong.” Foggy commented, a tiny smile etching across his face as he glanced over to Jessica. Silence followed as Jessica continued through to the bedroom, leaving Foggy to nervously smile back to Trish. Suddenly, he felt a familiarity in her face, before realising who she was – a realisation that Trish noticed all too soon. Rolling her eyes, she confirmed that it was, indeed, Patsy.

Jessica grinned slightly as she heard Trish’s audible frustration with being recognised as just Patsy, though her attention quickly fixated back to Karen. The bedroom was dimly lit, mostly shrouded in darkness by the curtains that covered the windows and left a small gap for light to escape through. The duvet was messy and scruffy, though they embraced Karen in a blanket of warmth.

She didn’t quite know what to say at first, her memory casting back to her own escape of Kilgrave’s powers. The quiet, the freedom, the jumbling of your own thoughts. The terror and fear to move – to say or do anything in fact, in case it wasn’t quite your will enacting that desire.

Sitting at the end of the bed, finding a space where Karen’s legs didn’t inhabit, she slowly dropped on the mattress. A façade of a smile didn’t compliment her face, but instead a sincere pained expression, understanding what Karen had been a victim of.

“They got him.” Jessica spoke softly. It wasn’t often she let her genuine emotions, and sincerity, convey in her words. Her hardened exterior, aggression (sometimes only passive), dismissive and sarcastic behaviour let her block everybody else out. But this time, she knew that she couldn’t carry that same attitude. “Properly this time. His power is a virus, which came from some fucked up experiments his parents did on him when he was younger.” Jessica explained, trying to fill the silence.

Karen’s sniffling nose was the only other accompanying sound within the room, though the fear and quiet was understandable. Jessica sighed as she stared through the minuscule gap within the curtain, “We’ll find justice, Karen. Don’t worry.”

“Justice?” Karen scoffed, almost in anger as she slowly pulled her head back towards Jessica. “I work with two fairly decent lawyers. I know for a fact, justice is bullshit. We won’t find justice. The man has the power to make anybody do what he wants – he made me want to do things. He literally changed how I thought. Got in my head.” Karen gasped as her voice scampered for words in a panicked tone.

“Hey,” Jessica rested her hand on Karen’s to calm her down, her eyes glancing back with beaming sympathy. “We’ve got him. I promise you.”

Karen dropped her head back against the pillow, shaking slightly as a slither of cold from the room wafted over her in the abrupt moment. She sighed, tears continued to stream down her face, all while memories of her time as Kilgrave’s prisoner haunted her mind.

“Doesn’t change what happened though. What we did. What he made me do. What he made me... want to do.” A series of daunting and dreadful flashbacks surged through her mind.

Jessica stared back to the woman, feeling nothing but an overbearing guilt pass over her. Resting her hand on Karen’s shoulder once again, Jessica smiled weakly and faintly. “That man is a monster, and nothing that happened is any of your fault. You’re not to blame for what he did.”

Though her words felt redundant, there was a part of Karen that felt relief to hear them. Kilgrave’s voice still resonated in her mind, like a lurking shadow in the corner of the room. Like a demon shrouded in darkness, whose words were more powerful than any weapon made by man. His murmuring voice echoed deep inside her mind, crawling up from somewhere deep inside her mind.

Jessica pushed herself up, feeling the futility of her efforts. It had taken trained therapists months to convince her that the events Kilgrave had manipulated weren’t her fault, and so any notion that she could play a part in changing Karen’s mind in a simple statement seemed redundant.

Although, as Jessica set across the room, she heard Karen sniffle slightly as she wiped away the tears that clustered in her eyes. Her head peered upwards slightly, meeting with Jessica’s sympathetic glance back, before a worried anxiety etched across her face. Jessica smiled back to her for a moment, curious to know what had prompted the woman’s attention.

“Could you stay here?” She asked, her voice soft and almost embarrassed. Jessica glanced back through to the apartment hallway, listening as Foggy and Trish discussed something. A warm and reassuring smile lit up as she nodded her head, knowing her nature of distance and apathy was best avoided in this moment.

They sat in silence for a while. Karen sniffled and cried, and Jessica returned her hand to Karen’s shoulder every so often, but not a word was shared amongst them. Karen could still feel Kilgrave over her, but she knew Jessica well enough through his stories that her presence alone reassured her. Before long, the tears stopped and she just laid, embracing the quiet and emptiness.

Of course, the distant sounds of the world continued. Foggy and Trish’s discussion rumbled throughout the house, but for the two sat in the bedroom it was an indistinctly muffled sound. Cars beeped outside and people shouted along the street, sounds which prompted some terror into Karen in the moments her mind slipped back into memories of the previous few days.

“You can stay here as long as you like, you know that don’t you?” Jessica turned her attention back to Karen amongst the comforting silence. “When I escaped Kilgrave… I found it easier to be with other people.” Despite the fact her circumstances were different, in that her escape from Kilgrave had appeared to be through his death, her experience was still valuable enough to aid her in guiding Karen to a more peaceful place.

“I know that you thought he’d died,” Karen started, pushing herself up out of the bed. Her eyes were red and puffy, clearer to see through the light basking through the gap in the curtains. “But did he ever actually leave? Because- Because I feel like he’s here. In my mind, sitting and waiting and watching and scratching away.”

Jessica watched, almost disturbed. It was like a mirror, a reflection of the torment that followed her in the aftermath of Kilgrave’s absence in her life. She wanted to lie, reassure that Kilgrave left. That his presence was completely eradicated by his absence, no less his death, but that wasn’t true. Kilgrave was a parasite – an unkillable parasite that fed on your happiness and every ounce of living you want. Guilt and trauma was all he left, and he worsened those two as it was.

“No.” Jessica replied bluntly, her façade of a smile fading as she confronted the truth. “Kilgrave never leaves you.”

Karen sighed deeply, before locking her eyes onto Jessica. Nothing more needed to be said to see the visible terror and pain that Kilgrave had left. A demon still haunting her.

“Then we get him. We destroy him. We find closure and we make sure that Kilgrave never ruins another life.” Karen paused as her words were rapid and hastened with rage. A brief halt let her heavy breathing sound, before she locked her eyes onto Jessica’s. “He’ll suffer for what he’s done. Done to both of us. If he doesn’t leave, then we make sure he really can’t return.”

Jessica was rather taken aback by the bold stance Karen had stood so abruptly. “He’s with the people who can ensure justice, here. That’s what matters.”

“New York has had aliens literally fall out of the sky and it took an entire band of superheroes to stop them. Superheroes, Jessica. Granted, one of them had a gun and the other a bow and arrow. But they had a big green monster and a Norse god. By the time Kilgrave’s that big a threat, he will have dismantled everything standing in his way…” Karen stared blankly across the room, trapped in her own thoughts of Kilgrave discreetly destroying civilisation. “He needs to go, before he can do anything else.”

Jessica watched, wide-eyed and almost unnerved by Karen’s almost murderous instinct. There had been an abrupt switch in Karen – one she didn’t quite know how to respond to. Although Karen had a fair point, in that Kilgrave was a man who had mastered the arts of manipulation, she had remained unsure of whether killing him was the right way to draw his conclusion to an end.

Before she could even voice her disagreement, the apartment was seized into a still silence. A knock at the door and sounds of shuffling footsteps had echoed throughout the apartment, bringing everything to a grinding halt. Trish and Foggy fell quiet, their eyes turning towards the figure in the hallway. The absence of purple was the largest indicator it wasn’t Kilgrave, though Foggy had hope that Matt had arrived in a changed outfit.

Hurrying towards the door, he turned his attention to the bedroom, throwing a glance back to Jessica who had reached the doorway. She nodded her head, ignoring the reluctance that drove her instinct to leave the door locked shut.

Foggy, now with Jessica’s permission, seized the handle and pulled the door open. His eyes glanced down the corridor and were immediately met with a disappointment to himself. He’d expected Matt, though instead, he found a man he didn’t recognise. The man wore clothes that carried a horrible stench, and his eyes drooped with weariness, all while sniffling like a flu had reached its peak.

“Malcolm?” Jessica’s voice was prompt and quick as she stormed across towards the door, replacing Foggy as he quickly moved out of the way. “What’s up? We’re sort of in the middle of something.”

Malcolm’s dreary eyes glanced around, catching sight of Trish in the room across from him. Guilt resonated in his eyes as he shifted towards Jessica, his voice fairly quiet as he muttered a reply. “I heard about Kilgrave… and I need to tell you about something – something that I couldn’t before.”

Jessica raised her eyebrows as she stared back to Malcolm curiously. She was fascinated by the proposal of information, wondering what information her constantly-high neighbour could divulge. “Come in.” Jessica stated, letting go of the door and wandering towards the bedroom door. She smiled and nodded towards Karen, reassuring her briefly everything would be okay.

Wandering through to her living room-turned-office, she heard as Malcolm shut the door behind him. Trish watched cautiously, while Foggy felt an unnerved uncertainty pass over him as Malcolm threw a confused expression back towards him.

“What if he’s Kilgraved?” Trish whispered cautiously as Jessica walked past towards her chair. Jessica shook her head almost certain that they were safe from Malcolm.

Jessica dropped into her chair and stared across the room to Malcolm. She watched as his eyes darted around the room, recognising Trish briefly, before his eyes lingered on a bottle of bourbon stashed in a cabinet to his left. He looked towards the hideous couch propped against the wall to his right, before letting out a heavy sigh.

“For the past month, I’ve been meeting Kilgrave every morning.” Malcolm started, throwing the room into a collective confusion mixed with panic. Malcolm quickly noticed the mixture of responses that followed his statement, launching him to defend himself. “At first he was just my dealer. We’d meet at 10 in the morning… but then a few days in, he asked if I wanted it for free. And of course I did, so I asked him what I had to do and he told me and I said no. No way in hell was I going to do it… but then he made me want to do it.”

“Do what?” Jessica asked cautiously, knowing for a fact that the answer wasn’t going to be something she liked. It wasn’t an illicit offer, or a helpful errand, and most likely made it no coincidence that Kilgrave would deal her neighbour drugs.

Malcolm was hesitant. Ashamed and uncomfortable, but he knew the truth had to come out. Clawing away at his brain, he could hear Kilgrave’s instructions to not tell anybody. To keep their ‘transactions’ unknown to anybody, especially Jessica. But those words had no power, and the fear the man in purple provoked was beginning to wear off with the news of his arrest.

“He made me take photographs of you… everyday.”

“What the fuck?” Trish burst out instantly, jumping forward towards Malcolm with rage plastered across her face. “What kind of weird pervert are you? Taking photos of a woman to feed your drug addiction?”

“Trish!” Jessica shouted, jumping to her feet. Malcolm backed away, his hands trembling slightly as his glances darted back around the eyes that fixed on him. “He was Kilgrave’d. It’s not his fault!” Her words echoed throughout the apartment, seizing them all in silence before Jessica approached Malcolm.

“That’s where he was going then, every morning? To collect photographs of you, right?” Foggy noted, connecting the two dots as he turned back around to her. Jessica and Malcolm both nodded their heads “He was risking everything solely for photographs?” Foggy wondered, confused by the idea.

The sound of footsteps and the opening of the bedroom door turned the attention of the room to Karen. Her puffy eyes stared around the room, before catching onto Jessica’s.

“You’re supposed to be hiding, Karen!” Jessica spoke through her gritting teeth as she darted across the room, before meeting Karen’s eyes who stared with a blunt expression of irritation.

“Hiding?” Malcolm muttered to himself, before taking a deep breath and gasping out loud. “You’re the one they’re talking about on the news, right? The woman he kept capt-” Malcolm’s husky and tired voice was brought to a halt as he noticed Jessica’s stern look, stopping him from speaking.

“Matt asked about the photographs and Kilgrave said he knew you would find out one day. He wanted you to feel unsafe without him and to show you how getting further away was both useless and damaging to other people… like us.” Karen’s voice was weak and her recollection of Kilgrave’s words unnerved her, almost hearing the British accent jumbling around her head as she spoke.

“That prick…” Trish murmured to herself.

“I’m sorry…” Malcolm spoke up again, looking back to Jessica feeling nothing but the same guilt that resonated in his eyes. “I wanna say I did it because he made me… and he did. But honestly? Sometimes I did it just for the drugs. His power wore off most of the time and in the end taking pictures of you was worth it.”

“Just like the paparazzi, huh? Profiting from being a creep.” Trish almost spat as she spoke, glaring towards Malcolm as his eyes shifted back towards her.

“I didn’t come here to argue with you – just to warn you. Kilgrave knew about your plan to confront him and he’s probably set up things to protect him. You need to get out of here, find somewhere safe until you’re sure Kilgrave is locked away.”

Malcolm’s words drove a panic into Karen and Jessica, whose eyes met for a moment. Trish darted her eyes across towards the pair too, while Foggy was caught in the daunting realisation that Matt was still out there and vulnerable to Kilgrave’s influence were they to meet again.

Foggy promptly seized his coat, with his abrupt flurry around the room attracting the attention of the room. His explaantion for his busied rush to collect his stuff, briefly detailed his intention to find Matt. Although he knew finding his best friend would be tricky, especially considering their new discovery of Matt’s particular abilities, he knew leaving him in a world that Kilgrave’s contingency plans could erupt at any moment.

As fast as he was in explaining his exit, Foggy darted out of Jessica’s apartment. Carried by his speedy haste and growing panic, he shot across the corridor and down the stairs, not waiting for the elevator. Beckoning throughout the apartment was the echo of his fast footsteps, leaving Karen rather nervous without his presence in the apartment.

“Well, Jess, I think you both should stay at mine. I can install some extra security too, make sure Kilgrave can’t get in.” Karen’s eyes almost lit up hopefully at the suggestion, hurriedly turning back to Jessica to see her reaction.

“No.” Jessica replied bluntly, staring back towards her sister with a stern and unmoveable expression. “If Kilgrave has set anything up and I’m not here, then he’ll make things worse. Not to mention, we’ve got to get Malcolm’s life back on track – leaving him here means I can’t help him.”

“I’m stood right here, you know that, right? You can’t help me – I don’t even want your help.”

“You’re in this mess because of me. You’re my responsibility now, okay?” Jessica’s stern authority had squashed any desire of arguing with her. Her eyes darted back towards her sister, who was trying her best to combat Jessica’s denial, but was struggling to confront the authority that she had seized. “You can take Karen back to yours-”

“I’m not leaving you.” Karen replied instantly, shutting down Trish’s reply. “No offence, but I trust Jessica more than anybody right now. As much as I’d love to live in a celebrities penthouse with all the security in the world, without Jessica… I won’t feel safe.” She smiled weakly, glancing back to Trish with a sense of guilt guiding her rejection.

With a faint smile, echoing some gratitude she wasn’t hesitiant to express, Jessica nodded her head. “I’ll be alright, don’t worry. Kilgrave is in prison and doesn’t have power over us anymore. Whatever he has planned, we’ll face it.”

***

As Jessica Jones and Karen Page took steps in their new-found friendship, rooted in their shared trauma of living under Kilgrave’s power, Foggy Nelson sought out Matt Murdock. This universe saw a change in the vigilante, his mind altered slightly by the sadistic and ruthless monster named Kilgrave – but where he felt most comfortable and safe remained unchanged.

Neither his home or office housed the man, but instead a church. A church amongst homes of people and rows of cars, with a bench outside and steps down into the crypt, all while the empty hall inside echoed slightly with his abrupt hurry inside.

***

Foggy’s entrance into the church was made known to the few present rather quickly. His loud footsteps and shouting voice towards a seated Matt promptly made clear his reasons for entering the house of God. The beckoning sound of Foggy’s entrance pierced Matt’s ears, whose ears were sensitive to the quiet beating of hearts, let alone shouting voices carried through the echoey chamber that the church was.

At first, approaching Matt, Foggy noticed he wore ragged clothes taken from the church’s lost and found, though beside him was the cluster of armour Kilgrave had brought to him. The horned helmet and weapon disguised as a guide stick sat amongst them, driving a slight twinge of anxiety to pass over Foggy as he saw him.

Now standing beside the bench that Matt had propped his stuff amongst, Foggy let out a heavy sigh. He was calmed slightly by the fact that his friend was safe. Kilgrave’s possible contingency plans, if they existed, hadn’t reached Matt as of yet, and gave him a brief pause amongst the chaos that had arrived in his life.

“There’s a lot we need to talk about, huh?” His voice was soft and uncertain. Rattling around his mind were hundreds of questions and an overwhelming sense of betrayal, though he knew the delicate nature of the situation Matt had found himself in.

“Not right now, Foggy.” Matt’s husky voice was quiet and rough. His head cocked slightly to sound of Foggy’s voice, absorbing the world around him as he pulled his attention back away from his thoughts. “I- I know I’ve lied and I know you have questions, but after everything with Kilgrave, I just need some time to clear my head.”

Foggy shifted along the bench, sitting next to Matt and focusing forward on the alter ahead of him. He sighed slightly, not quite sure what to say or do in that moment. Inside his mind was burning questions that he needed answered, but he also understood that Matt was in no place to provide what he sought.

“Karen’s safe.” Foggy broke the silence between them, quietening his voice in hope that prying ears wouldn’t try and find the source of their woes. “She’s with Jessica – so I thought I’d come and check on you.”

“I’d rather be alone.” Matt stated bluntly, turning his head in Foggy’s direction, sensing the growing sadness by his request in Foggy’s heartbeat.

“Matt, I just found out you have super senses and a psychopath has been using his own superpowers to use you. I’m sorry, but there’s no way I’m leaving you.” Foggy stated, sighing gently as he caught sight of the frown etched across Matt’s face. “How did all of this start? You said it was chemicals that blinded you right? Any clue what kind of chemicals they were?”

“No. All I know is they burned my vision and the little that I can see is just the world on fire. They improved my other senses though – I can hear a heartbeat, smell from far away, notice the smallest changes in temperature or the air.”

“I’m assuming the fighting wasn’t from your dad though.” Foggy prompted Matt to think about his dad once again. The faint memories that resonated in his mind, that had begun to fade with age and his loss of vision, brought a warmth to his heart. He’d always held a fondness for his father, and found comfort in the memories of their time together.

“He didn’t want me to fight… but without my mum around and his talent lying in boxing, it’s what he did. Sort of. In the end he was paid to lose, until one day I told him not to and that didn’t end well.”

Guilt weighed down on him as he recalled the night he lost his dad. Sobbing in an alleyway, crying for help as the thick stench of blood wafted into his nose. Sirens rang through the streets, while gasping citizens stood and watched. It was a memory which remained with Matt throughout his life, almost torturing him throughout.

“Kilgrave…” Matt’s voice froze once he uttered the name, gulping slightly as the thought came to him. “He did things – horrible things. And people like him are the reason I put that mask on. Why I used the training I got as a kid, and these powers I got from that accident. Because there are helpless people out there fighting sick and cruel people just like him.”

“But Matt, that’s not your fight. You’re a lawyer! You know that fight is in the courtroom!”

“Do you remember that Hunsk murder trial when we started? We just did admin for it, but I remember it all. They argued insufficient evidence and misconduct and let the man walk free. Two weeks later, he was arrested for another crime, but his lawyers got him off again. A year later, he was arrested and tried properly, and during that trial, he admitted he was guilty in the first trial?” Matt’s memory of the event was clear, having almost shaped him as he sighed and turned around to Foggy. “Justice is blind, Foggy. But not in an ‘equal and fair way’ – but in ignorance.”

Foggy was taken aback, rifling through his memories of the Hunsk trial. It was almost like dusting off an old file, with his memories almost sealed off from him. He stared back towards his friend, trying to find the words to dissuade him from even considering donning the suit again, though he knew it was almost impossible with Matt’s visceral anger that resonated in his words.

“I know you’re blaming yourself for not being able to stop Kilgrave – but that’s no reason to continue this.”

“It’s my penance.” He muttered, resting his hand down upon the cowl of his suit. He let out a deep breath and stared forward, the sunlight burning in his obscured and red-filled vision. “And it starts with taking down Fisk.”

“Matt-”

“Please, Foggy. Give me some time alone. I’ll explain everything to you later, but right now… I just need time in here, to think.”

Chapter Text

Some people in this timeline are fortunate enough to not live in the squalor of New York. Across various timelines, the man known as Wilson Fisk often lives high above the city. His view oversees the landscape, built amongst other towering buildings, much like his political strife to change and control Hell’s Kitchen.

In this perilous time that he lived in, he found himself often locked away in this penthouse with the new-found love of his life, Vanessa. In the week that Kilgrave had been set loose around the city, Fisk revealed his past to Vanessa. And, such as in most timelines, she understood him better. But now, their relationship had changed much earlier, equipping itself for a new future of an uncertain timeline.

***

Whilst Fisk, a man renowned for his secrecy, indulged in the ecstasy of having a loving confidant that he could trust, Vanessa experienced a rush in her life that was new. Fisk was dangerous, but strong and bold and something about him had captured her love for him. Their time together had been brief, but tantalising for them both.

Staring out of the penthouse glass, which overlooked the entire horizon of Hell’s Kitchen and beyond, Fisk caught a glimpse of his reflection. Flashing in his mind, as he stared back into his own eyes, he could see the scared child he once was. The weak helpless boy, who was berated by his father and a witness to his mother’s abuse.

That image didn’t last long, however, as it was soon replaced by who he was now at the touch of the woman he loved. Vanessa’s arm reached out and ran along Fisk’s white suit, her nails painted red, and a golden bracelet wrapped around her wrist.

Promptly turning his attention towards the woman, Fisk felt his face lighten with a smile. His eyes befell Vanessa, who stood with a gentle smile as her make-up complimented her styled brown hair and stunning black dress. Fisk, astounded by her everlasting beauty, was briefly speechless, though found his voice quickly as her eyes noticed his stumbling words.

“Vanessa…” He finally let out, before admiring her beauty once again. “You… You are beautiful.” Finally, he spoke, smiling as his eyes fixed on her.

“Thank you,” she bowed her head slightly, scoffing slightly as her flattered response was overcome with a giddish glee. Almost as though she was a teenager finally catching the attention of her crush. “Sorry if I disturbed you – you looked, thoughtful.”

Fisk nodded his head slightly, slowly panning his attention back towards the glass. Staring back towards him were his eyes, guilty and ashamed as they fell upon himself again. “You often admire art, and the stories they tell and the feelings they provide… but what do you see when you see me?” He spoke softly, and once again exposed his vulnerable personality to the woman he loved with no end.

Vanessa rested her hand against Fisk’s face, turning his gaze back towards her. Etched across her face was a calm and loving smile, with warmth and sincerity. “When I look at you, I see a strong and honest man. A good, powerful man…” Fisk’s expression changed, though before he could speak, Vanessa knew what he was about to say. “But beneath that, I see that little boy, who did what he must to protect his mother. And you know, Wilson, that I don’t care about that – that I love you for who you are, and what you did for your mother is far more telling of your story than what you did to your father.”

“I have only ever dreamed of meeting somebody who…” He swallowed as he looked back to her, gulping gently as he considered his words. “Somebody who saw me.”

Vanessa smiled, “I see you.” She said softly, leaning to kiss him once her words were spoken.

“This monster… Kilgrave. I do not believe he worked alone. There is another, out there, who intends on destroying everything I am working towards. They have taken Wesley and I expect the man in the mask will come for me again, soon…” Fisk’s calm and quiet voice came to a brief halt, before a seething rage shot through his face. Breathing heavily, his voice huskier once it spoke again. “But that man did not understand! He hid in the shadows as did I, but he fell upon the might of stronger men, where I do not! I forged this plan, this future! I will make improve this city, and the lives of everybody within it!”

Vanessa rested against the man, staring back through the dark horizon of the glass, and clutching tighter onto his arm. “Kilgrave is safely locked away. And I will stand by your side, no matter what comes before you.”

Fisk turned his attention towards Vanessa, and without uttering a word, simply smiled at her. His quivering angered simmered and his face calmed. With her standing beside him, the rage was almost squashed by her warmth and the love she radiated. Simply looking towards the woman, he felt nothing but fortune for having been loved by her.

After some time, Fisk was alerted by one of his various assistants that their driver had arrived. The pair were dragged away from their reflections, both linked by arms and bearing warm gleeful smiles. They hurried through the penthouse, locking the door behind them and plunging the building into darkness as they did.

Neither their drive, nor their dinner, contained much of particular interest. They sat and embraced one another’s company. They dined prestigious food and drank expensive wine, all while sharing stories of their lives.

Fisk opened up more about his life to Vanessa than anybody he had ever known, and in his company felt both vulnerable but invincible at the same time. He felt exhilarated but exhausted, trying to ensure nothing he said or did ruined what they had.

“You act like a man who is only ruled by his vision for good, but I can see a desire for power within you.” Vanessa said, engrossed in Fisk’s white jacket, her hands almost swamped by Fisk’s as they wandered through a gently lit park and along a still duck pond. Fisk turned his head towards her, curious for a moment as her words fascinated him. “You want power, not with evil intent, but you believe seizing what you love can only help it. That you know what is best, and how to make it happen.” She glanced down towards his hand, which was much larger than her own as it clutched onto his.

“I learnt, from a young age, that I was somebody who could lead. And that with great power, came a great responsibility that I could handle.” Fisk smiled at her, ignoring the painful memories that began to flood his mind.

Blood splatters and the cracking of a skull at the end of a hammer.

“I admire that, Wilson. Many people today feel so lost and uncertain and the few that don’t, feel hungry for power for themselves. You- you are different. You seek power to help and love.”

“I know that I have known you for such a small amount of time, but you have become a reason for this already. A reason for my work!” His booming voice rang louder, before his eyes turned to Vanessa. Between them was a captured smile. A shared exchange of pure love and fascination with one another.

Though this exchange was abruptly cut short, as Fisk’s eyes caught sight of a shadow. A figure shifted through the dimly lit path of the park, which was made up of a variety of grim yellow lights and dark corners of unlit parts of the path. Fisk froze, before stepping in front of Vanessa protectively.

“Who’s there?” Fisk shouted, his beckoning voice echoing throughout the empty and quiet park. The distant sounds of New York rang in the distance, with honking cars and shouting voices, but the park itself was still and quiet. It was undisturbed, besides for the three now present.

Fisk didn’t receive a reply. Silence followed. There were no voices or sounds of shuffling that proceeded his call out into the dark wilderness of the park, but instead an eerie frozen moment void of sound and movement.

“Have you come again? To resume business that was previously… interrupted?” Fisk’s cautious voice was accompanied by his shifting eyes which surveyed the area. Unsurprisingly, he failed once again to catch a glimpse of the source of the shifting shadow.

Hurriedly swivelling his body around, still resting his hand onto Vanessa as he did so, he caught sight of the man in the mask. Though this time, he didn’t quite wear the dark jumper and mask wrapped around his head, or the bandaged wraps fixed around his fists. Instead, now the man stood in purple body armour.

As the silhouette approached and a lamppost shimmered a warm yellow glow over the masked man, Fisk felt his hand firm into a fist. He obscured the sight of Vanessa, instinctively keeping her out of harms’ way. He stood in a white waistcoat, with a black tie running down his shirt, with nothing but brute strength and a discreetly armoured lining to his clothes.

“I see your alliance with the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen has brought you benefits.” Fisk stated, staring back towards the man. With a booming voice, the man showed no emotions or hesitations in his confrontation of the masked man. Nothing terrified him – or, if something did, he was yet to find what it was. “You should know, he has been apprehended by the law – and so will you!”

“We both know the law has it flaws, Fisk.” The man’s gruff voice was quiet, dissipating in sound as it reached the white-suited man. “Because if either of us was to be arrested, we both know it should be you.”

“You still fail to grasp my intentions!” Declared Fisk, ignoring Vanessa’s weak clutch of his hulking arms.

“Your intention is to destroy Hell’s Kitchen. Funnel drugs and traffickers through the city, while kicking people out of their homes and demolishing this city to pave your dream.”

“Some things must be torn down before they can ever see improvement. I don’t expect a man who hides in the shadows and aligns with devils to understand the complexities that a city-wide improvement requires. If I fail in my plan – if you were able to succeed in stopping me – this city would rot. Rot from it’s core!”

“I believe in the people of this city – they will make it right!”

“The people of this city believe in him!” A voice sounded from behind Fisk, before Vanessa appeared fully. The light of the lamppost above shone over her, revealing a sternness in her eyes as she stared back towards the masked man. “You have no right terrorising him, when the people of this city have put their faith in Wilson.”

The man began to wander forward, the shadows passing over him before he wandered under the vicinity of the next lamp. Fisk ushered Vanessa away, though didn’t move from the spot his fixed himself to. “I won’t let you destroy this city, Fisk.”

His eyes glanced back towards the approaching armoured man, before the pair stood only a few feet away from one another. The masked man stared back up towards Fisk, not uttering a word as his eyes remained unmoved from the man.

Although Fisk anticipated that the man would attack at any given moment, he remained frozen. Under the dim yellow light, he observed the details of the man. There was little to identify him with, though the unshaven brown or black beard was enough for him. He observed his height and the man’s lips, before smirking for some time.

“Lay your hands on me, and see that I will shatter your world.” Spoke the man with a booming voice, his eyes piercing into the masked man’s soul. Almost like an angered dog, the masked man bared his teeth and seethed with rage. “I imagine an ally like Kilgrave brings a heavy toll on the mind. I hear that Miss Page is still recovering from the abuse she endured – let alone the… frightening state she found herself in last week after suspiciously being found with a dead colleague.”

“You own Union Allied! You set that up!” The man’s voice was clear to Fisk as it slithered from his tightly clutched teeth. The masked man edged forward slightly, his fists clenched, and his body prepared to strike at any moment. His mind prepared him, his instincts readying.

“I am not at liberty to discuss my connections to Miss Page’s case, but I can discuss the police report of Kilgrave’s arrest.” The masked man’s rage slipped for a moment, as a twitch of his lips indicated a curiosity brimming across his face. “Miss Page’s abduction was… understandable, given her relationship with him. But why Kilgrave sought refuge in her colleague’s home was interesting to me.”

“What does that have to do with anyth-” Fisk’s hand shot forward, raising itself towards the masked man’s head. Sharply, the masked man dodged aside, panting slightly as the sudden and abrupt movement caught him off guard. His fists raised as he moved out his reach, protecting himself against another unexpected movement.

“It interests me, that a masked vigilante would appear to me from the shadows the night Kilgrave is taken out of the picture.” Fisk stormed towards the masked man, stomping loudly before forcefully thrusting his hand forward in a second attempt to clasp onto the man’s mask.

The masked man flinched and ducked under the man’s swinging reach, before throwing his fist forward into Fisk’s stomach. The blow, which would have generally struck a petty henchmen into a weak and staggering state, merely set Fisk back. The masked man could feel a panging pain surge through his hand, as his knuckles had collided with the armoured lining of Fisk’s white suit.

Fisk scoffed as he watched the masked man stare down at his fist in confusion, before hurrying forward once more. In an unexpected leap, the man seized the arm of Fisk and as his feet landed onto the ground, his swinging arms carried Fisk over his head. The man slammed the heavy juggernaut to the ground, shaking the ground beneath them slightly.

“Wilson!” Vanessa shouted, scurrying forward, through screeching to a halt as the masked man hurried towards her. He brandished a metal pole which was holstered to his leg, before pointing it towards her.

“Stay out of this!” His gruff and panting breath was stern, before he turned back around to Fisk, who struggled to his feet. The masked man hurriedly marched towards Fisk, clutching onto the metal poles as he split them to be two separate weapons. With his fists clasped onto the poles, he raised his arms and slammed the down.

Swinging the batons through the air, he awaited the blow towards the man to ring with a gruesome echo, though all he was greeted with was a quiet sound of collision. Fisk had raised both hands as he gathered to his feet and wrapped his hands around the batons, preventing them from hurtling towards him any longer.

He ripped the batons from the masked man’s hands, before dropping them to the ground. His hands shot forward, gripping onto the shoulders of the masked man’s suit. He could feel the cold metal touching his skin, while his hands seized the strong fabric underneath. The masked man struggled for a moment, though he merely struggled in his efforts to escape the large man’s clutches.

Fisk slammed the man to the ground, standing over him before throwing his leg down onto the masked man’s left hand. He knelt down, hearing the cracking of bones in the man’s fists, staring into his face. His hands reached down towards the man’s mask and tore it from his head.

Letting out a slight laugh, Fisk stared down towards a slightly bleeding man. “Matthew Murdock.” Grunted Fisk, his smile almost audible. Fisk slammed the mask into the ground, before his hand clutched onto the collar of the man’s suit. Rising to his feet and letting Matt’s hand free, he stared into the man’s wincing eyes, which glimpsed away from the shining light that cascaded through the limited vision he still had.

“The lawyer who Kilgrave kidnapped?” Vanessa wondered, hurrying forward into a panic. “I thought you said he was blind?”

“He is…” Fisk curiously dropped the man as he loosened his grip on Matt’s collar, hearing the thud as he collapsed against the ground. “But I expect the horrible incident that caused the loss of your vision did more to you than steal your sight?”

Matt tried to scurry to his feet, though Fisk’s foot slammed into his rib. A squeal of pain resonated through the park, as Matt endured the sudden blow with his body armour barely absorbing the shock.

“But a lawyer? Surely a man who knows the law wouldn’t…” Vanessa stared back down towards the man, as her arm wrapped around Fisks. She observed his wincing agonised face, blood dripping from his mouth as he did so. “You really believed you could prevent this? That you posed any threat to my Wilson?”

“Vanessa…” Fisk spoke softly after a moment, as they observed the surging pain shoot through the man’s body. “Could you leave us, for a moment. Head back to the car and alert our driver of the cause of my delay.”

At first, Vanessa hesitated. Although, as her eyes met with Fisks, she accepted his instruction and wandered back along the way they had travelled. She occasionally threw her head back towards Fisk, briefly watching as he stood over Matt’s body.

“I warned you, Matthew.” Fisk stated, fixating his eyes on Matt. “I will shatter your world.”

“I know your weakness, Fisk.” Matt grinned as he stared up towards Fisk, his teeth slightly tainted by the red of his own blood.

“I don’t have a weakne-”

“Her.” Matt chuckled, now hearing the rage in Fisk as his heartbeat jumped. “Shatter my world and I swear, I will make yours hell.” Fisk stared down, watching as Matt winced in agony as stumbled to his feet and clasped onto the abandoned cold cowl that had been slammed into the ground.

Fisk, in a blinded rage, swung his fist into the side of Matt’s head, throwing him to the ground once again. A splatter of blood shot out and scattered the stone path. He seethed with rage as he panted, now his large body towering over Matt, a rage filled grimace etched across his face.

“Threaten Vanessa again, and I will make sure there is nobody you have ever loved still breathing.” Fisk leant down and grabbed Matt’s throat, choking him slightly as he stared into his eyes. He could feel the life escaping Matt’s body, pleasuring a dark smile on his face. “You will regret ever trying to destroy my work.”

Echoing throughout the world were the footsteps of Vanessa, as her heels slapped against the stone floor in her hurry towards Fisk. “Stop!” She cried out, panicked. Matt could hear her heartbeat bellowing loudly in her chest, her panting filled with an unnerved terror. “He’s escaped, Wilson. Kilgrave escaped!”

Instantly hearing her words, Fisk felt his grip on Matt’s throat loosen, watching as the man fell to the ground. The scampering for breath sounded from the pained man, though Fisk showed little care. Immediately jumping to his feet, he felt his untucked shirt blowing in the breeze that followed him in his race back towards the car. Under the dimly lit path, his hand fell onto Vanessa’s back and prompted her forward, before turning back to Matt.

“Run, Matthew. You won’t have long!” Threatened the man, holding every intention to seek and punish the man with unruly pain.

Chapter Text

Heroes are forged in their conflict with their enemies. Tony Stark became Iron Man in his conflict with Obadiah Stane, T’Challa in his conflict with Kilmonger and Matt Murdock in his battle with Wilson Fisk. However, in this timeline, the conflicts that forged Matt Murdock’s and Jessica Jones’ more heroic traits didn’t exactly happen as they did in yours.

Instead, enemies within this reality came into alliances, whilst the heroes of this timeline struggled in their growth. Matt lurked in shadows, riddled with Kilgrave’s lingering voice, and Jessica sat with Karen inside her apartment prepared for any precautionary plans Kilgrave had – all while Kilgrave himself had a plan executed for his own escape.

*The Night Before*

Pining after Jessica for an entire year, and watching her since his supposed ‘death’ had taught Kilgrave everything he needed to know about her. It taught him about her favourite foods, her childhood, her personality – but most importantly, where to find her.

Lingering in alleyways or on fire escapes was generally the answer, and his keen eye had spotted her various times in the previous few nights. Although he’d let some oversight lead to his current position, hiding out in a vigilante’s apartment against their will, he expected Jessica’s observations were only building up to something far worse.

His caution would serve him right, and he expected the best place to find safety and security was those who specialised in criminality. He already kept safe with security guards watching over him every morning in his exchange with Malcolm Ducasse, but now he needed more than hired thugs.

Exploring his options led him towards a cryptic basement, beneath an old and seemingly abandoned building. He was ushered through the top floor, which was littered with workers sorting powder into bags, their hands perfectly suited to the task as their eyes were scarred with chemical burns intended to blind them.

Wandering into the basement, Kilgrave found that the dimly lit room had a relaxing scent residing in the air. So far, to his knowledge, he hadn’t needed to use his powers – though the relaxing agent shifting through the air concerned him that he may indeed have to. Perhaps, he wondered, these criminal bosses wouldn’t bother giving him the aid he needed.

Sitting down, he waited for a moment. He grew more tense and frustrated, as the aroma of candles had the opposite intended result. His ears listened to the shifting footsteps around him, and the pacing of armed guards upstairs, before the echoing of a wooden walking stick sounded outside the door. Before long, the metal door creaked open, and Kilgrave’s eyes fell upon an elderly woman.

She hunched over slightly, and though the calming gentleness in her smile was convincing, Kilgrave had looked in the faces of unwilling-yet-obedient people enough in his life to know a deceiving expression when he saw one.

“The Devil of Hell’s Kitchen… The man Wilson Fisk is searching for” She spoke softly as she wandered across the room, her eyes observing and examining Kilgrave for a moment. “Fisk is a dear friend and business partner – coming here was… unwise.”

“Madame Gao, I presume? I should’ve guessed you would have links to Fisk!” Kilgrave stated quickly, before continuing with a devilish smile. “A fine woman such as yourself should be in league with the ruling elites!”

“I do hope that flattery is not your power, Mr Kilgrave.” She stated, resting in a chair across the room. She gestured for Kilgrave to join her, as she reached for a teapot. Her eyes flicked back towards the man in the purple suit, her eyebrow raised. “I have lived for so long… but your abilities are new… they are powerful.”

“Powerful enough to get what I want.” Watching as she poured tea into both teacups, Kilgrave sat down. He smirked as he cautiously observed as Madame Gao sip away at the boiled water, before picking up his own teacup.

“And yet, you sit across my table, drinking my tea, still hunted by Wilson.” Gently resting the cup on the table, her hand caressed the walking stick as she observed the man opposite her. “Why have you sought such a… diplomatic path?”

Kilgrave sipped the tea, before promptly putting the cup down onto its former spot. He stared at her, wondering the same question for a moment before a small flicker of a smile lit up across his face. “I know you’re powerful people.”

“Fear is wise.” Madame Gao stated, observing the man for a moment. She could see the urge to refuse he was scared, though she quickly spoke to prevent the rejection. “Caution allows the mind to evaluate everything in our way before we strike. Tell me, what brings you here?”

“A woman,” Kilgrave stated before Madame Gao’s face flickered with an expected smile. “Jessica Jones has been watching me, and I expect she has something up her sleeve to prevent my plans.”

“Men.” She scoffed before taking another sip of her drink. Lining her face was an amused smile, gleeful and dastardly as her thoughts ran through the various men she had met in her life, all of whom had been betrayed or defeated or prevented by women. “I have lived for so long and throughout my life, women have been persecuted and mistreated by men with power. And yet, I notice, it is because they fear us. They fear the power a woman might have, and sometimes they demonstrate it.”

Kilgrave looked guiltily down to his drink as she spoke for a moment, though he didn’t like the intimidation of Madame Geo's quiet words to change the façade across his face.

“Jessica is beyond powerful,” Kilgrave spoke with awe for a moment, holding an image of Jessica in his mind for a moment. He smiled gently, fantasizing about the brute strength Jessica had sometimes displayed. “But she threatens my life, and I am willing to help you no matter what if you help me.”

His proposition was valuable to Madame Gao. She considered the things she could do with a man like Kilgrave. A man whose abilities were unprecedented and changed the mere will of men. The power she could find and the advancements to her own plans.

Silence rested between them before she reached for her cane and pushed herself to her feet. Kilgrave courteously watched in silence, as the woman tapped the wooden cane against the stone ground and headed towards a small drawer. Opening the draw, she piqued Kilgrave’s intrigue, though he sat fixed in his seat and tried to catch a glimpse from where he sat.

Retrieving a small lead box, she wandered back towards the small table and planted it down before him. Every bone in his body urged for him to reach inside and investigate, though something about Madame Goa unnerved him. Whether it was her stern eyes or explicit life of experience which likely involved combat, he preferred to stay on her good side.

Opening the box, she revealed a small batch of heroin, before a small drawing upon parchment of an ancient city. She smiled as she rested back down in the seat. Her aged and ancient eyes met with Kilgrave’s before a sinister smile etched across her face.

“There is more to this city than a man like you could ever understand.” She stated, her voice slow and quiet for a moment as she watched Kilgrave’s reaction carefully. “Although I intend on sharing very little with you, I can promise my assistance in any escape a situation demands.”

“No offence, Madame Gao, but whatever Jessica has planned for me, I don’t think you’re going to be able to help on your own.” The woman shot him a piercing glare, freezing him for a moment in a panicked state.

“I am not offering myself as your protector.” She stated quietly, frustration toning her voice, while her face appeared calm and collected. A small grin flickered across her face before she spoke, amused slightly by Kilgrave’s discomfort. “The Hand, as we are called, can rescue you from anything. But, if I am to seek the agreement of my associates, I need two things.” Pausing for a moment, she watched as Kilgrave leaned in and nodded his head, now knowing he was eager to agree. “Your allegiance, and proof of your ‘abilities’.”

Kilgrave smirked leaning back in his chair. Confidence now swayed over him, as he threw his leg over his knee and his black leather shoe hung in the air. It jumped slightly as arrogance ran through his body, with his arms rested and unfettered confidence written over his face.

“Throw that cup at the wall.” His eyes glanced down to Madame Gao’s teacup and watched as her hand reached down towards the cup. Her fingers wrapped around the cup, and he watched in anticipation for the shattering of the china blue cup.  

However, as his eyes eagerly watched the woman, he felt an incompetent disappointment pass over him. The elderly woman smiled calmly, as her hand clasped onto the teacup and raised it towards her mouth, sipping away for a moment before resting it down.

“Not on me, Kilgrave.” She stated, before shouting something out in Mandarin. Her voice echoed throughout the concrete basement, ringing through the corridors before one of her blinded employees was brought inside with two guards. Madame Gao grinned as she turned towards Kilgrave. Leaning forward, she huddled her head towards Kilgrave, speaking quietly as she gave him an instruction.

Kilgrave looked confused for a moment, but the seriousness that lined her face informed him her instruction was to be followed. As such, Kilgrave wandered across the room and stared at the girl. A discomfort followed him at first, though all the wicked deeds he’d done in his life overshadowed this moment incredibly.

Whispering something in her ear, he spread his infectious virus and his words became an inescapable will. The instructions branded into her mind, with his words like the scorching poker. The woman turned her head towards Kilgrave for a moment, surprised herself as his words turned into her very own desire. She slowly turned around, silence resonating around them, before retrieving a knife from her boot.

The guards raised their guns, one aiming at the now-armed woman, and the other at Kilgrave. Though Madame Gao’s sudden delivery of instructions in Mandarin had them lower their weapons. Within seconds of the two men lowering their guns, the woman plunged forward with the knife, piercing one of the men’s necks and making way for a sudden gash of blood to pour from his neck.

Kilgrave felt blood almost splatter his face, while the wounded guard dropped to his feet. The second guard stood nervously, wandering backwards as his arm raised. Although Kilgrave didn’t speak Mandarin, he could tell that Madame Gao’s shouting words were instructions for the guard to not shoot or lower his gun – and either way, he did.

“Tell her, she can stop now.” Madame Gao stated, which Kilgrave promptly did, before wiping away a speck of blood that was shed onto his skin. The woman paused and dropped the knife, her hands trembling as she came to terms with what she had done. The elderly woman whispered in her ears for a moment, something quiet and unintelligible, also likely in another language, before she turned her attention to the dying guard.

“Look, I’m as sadist as the next bastard, but what’s this all about?” Kilgrave interrupted the silence, suddenly receiving the piercing glare of Madame Gao once again.

“I hate men who lie. Men who cheat.” She prodded the dying guard with her cane, hurting him more as the wooden end poked into his ribs. “You thought you could steal from me? You believed nobody would notice?” She continued, watching as the wounded man whimpered as she began to bruise his side. Glaring down at his body, she uttered something in Mandarin, with something of the effect of essentially degrading him.

The woman proceeded to instruct for the man’s body to be removed, from the room, before turning back towards Kilgrave with a gentle glimmer in her smile but a cruel and stern expression resonating in her eyes.

“Your abilities are strong.” Stated the woman, smiling as she bowed her and approached her seat once again. Kilgrave’s eyes flickered between the guard ushering the bloodied woman out of the room, and Madame Gao who now gently sat down in her seat. “It would be unwise to let such an important asset leave our grasp.”

“So, you’ll help?” Kilgrave wondered cautiously, hoping to not let his confidence overrule him now that he had met his match. He trusted his instinct that Madame Gao had secrets in her eyes and power in his fists, and it would be a fool's errand to even attempt to usurp that power.

“If your paranoia serves you correct, then I offer our assistance. In return, your alliance will help us procure the Black Sky.” Her words were serious and her eyes almost filled with wonder as she teetered on the edge of discussing something which would merely seem like a piece of myth to Kilgrave.

“Something tells me this ‘Black Sky’ isn’t some rare and expensive alcohol.” Kilgrave’s grin was wiped from his face within seconds, as Madame Gao’s piercing gaze glimpsed towards him before she reached into the box she had handed him before. An emblem was woven into the cloth that she retrieved, bearing the symbol of the same snake that had been the exterior for her other products.

“The Black Sky is a weapon. But it is not one you will understand in your… small perspective of our world.” She smiled, sipping away at her tea, before taking another glance towards the man suited in purple. “Your alliance with us cannot be broken, you must understand that.” She stated sternly, her eyes almost staring into his soul as he felt the discomfort from her sudden harsher tone. “You will meet the Hand again.”

***

It was on that night, that an alliance was born and the future of this timeline deviated beyond imagination. Life and death were to be transformed immensely, as the Hand gained a powerful ally. Somewhere, a shipping container rocked against the gentle sea, carrying a valuable product of their plans – all the while Jessica Jones waited and watched from opposite Matt Murdock’s apartment.

Once the events that I have already shown you unfolded, and the now-dubbed ‘Devil of Hells Kitchen’ was arrested and secured, the Hand sought to rescue him.

***

Kilgrave sat in silence. Staring at a blank concrete wall, he thought to himself in silence. Anger resonated in his mind, as he dwelled on the fact that Jessica had succeeded in her plan. Swirling around his mind was a variety of plans he could concoct in escaping, though most failed at the fact the guards had protected themselves with protective gear to prevent his virus from spreading.

Stillness surrounded him, as the noise-proof room barely caught a vibration of noise from outside. However, the blaring of a sudden alarm surged through the facility. The lights flared, before flickering to a dark red, and though the door remained locked, Kilgrave had hoped his rescue party had arrived.

Leaping to his feet, which were now covered in cheap plimsole-like shoes, he observed the corridors through a small reinforced door window. Guards clutched onto guns as they ran through the narrow corridors. Their hurried footsteps trembled the ground slightly, as boots slammed rapidly along the pristine white floor.

Their voices could barely be heard, though a sudden ringing of an intercom sounded through the walls, alerting the patients to stay calm and remain in their beds – although the sudden eruption of chaos had alerted the entire prison into a fascinated frenzy.

It wasn’t long until the true cause of the frantic flurry of guards was revealed to Kilgrave. Peering down to the end of the corridor, barely glimpsing the doors, he watched as dark-suited ninjas burst through the doors. Red cloth decorated their dark outfits, and only a section across their faces allowed for them to watch what they were doing.

Wielded in their hands were sharp katanas, which were clearly a deadly weapon in their grasp as they flipped across the walls and slaughtered the guards. The clean white glimmer of the facility was drenched in blood in seconds, and the suited warriors remain unscathed.

Before long, the ninjas barreled through the corridor and calmly reached Kilgrave’s door. They gestured for him to stand back, an instruction which was thankfully quickly met as the door was soon met with a booming explosion. Shooting across the room, almost hitting Kilgrave had he not dodged the projectile, the door slammed against the wall, almost crumpled by the explosion.

The tapping of a cane echoed throughout the corridor, as the blaring alarm quietened and the facility fell still briefly. The rows of guards gushing with blood were only an example of the bloodshed enacted for Kilgrave’s rescue, and he was quickly met by Madame Gao herself.

Four of the ninjas stood guard, whilst two escorted Madame Gao to Kilgrave’s cell. Her eyes stared towards the man, a smirk etched across her face as she felt nothing but satisfaction for succeeding in rescuing him.

“You know how to make a bloody entrance!” Kilgrave laughed as he stared out into the hallway. “Jesus fucking Christ, you didn’t tell me you had ninjas!” His eyes flickered towards the warriors, whose eyes glanced towards him unamused at his excited declaration.

Madame Gao simply smiled, before she handed Kilgrave a blank card from her pocket. Taking the card, he stared at it confused, before flipping it around and finding a set of coordinates etched across the paper, along with a date and time.

“I’m not looking to play games, Madame Gao,” Kilgrave spoke bluntly, still regulating himself in fear of the sheer power this woman had behind the façade of a frail elderly woman. “What is this?”

“If you find yourself captured tonight, that information must be protected. I cannot say any further on the subject, but you, an intelligent man, must easily decipher what a few numbers mean.” Resting both of her hands on the curved edge of her walking stick, she raised her eyebrow and watched as Kilgrave began to understand.

“Wait,” He interjected, now noticing Madame Gao beginning to turn around and wander out of the corridor. His eyes jumped back up from the card, fixating on her puzzled for a moment. “What do you mean if I find myself captured? Where are you going?”

“We have done all that we can without harming our efforts – escape using your abilities and fortune will lie ahead of us.”

With that statement, the ninjas hurried from the corridor and Madame Gao herself faded from his view. He stood, perplexed for a moment, attempting to figure out a plan to escape, without risking his life in the process.

***

Not too far from the facility, Jessica Jones and Karen Page sat across from one another. Clutched in their hands were glasses of bourbon, which they swished around gently as they spoke. Although the two had known each other very little, and their worlds were vastly different, both found comfort in the other’s unique experience with Kilgrave. It reassured them both that there was the hope for a brighter future.

“Holy shit!” Jessica suddenly blurted out, slamming her glass to the table and reaching for her laptop. Karen watched curiously for a moment before Jessica abruptly swivelled the screen towards her and revealed the article Karen had published. “I’ve only just realised, this was you!”

Karen looked sheepish and nervous, swigging down the remaining bourbon from her glass. The burning was satisfying for a moment before she leaned forward and stared at the screen. “Yup… two traumatic experiences in just the matter of two weeks.”

“Welcome to New York!” Jessica expelled, sarcastically amused as she clinked their empty glasses together. Karen chuckled gently as she did, comforted as she laughed for one of the first times in a while. “Surely though, you didn’t come to New York to be a secretary for two places that ended up with you in fucked up situations.”

“Course not – but did you really come here to be a PI?” Karen raised her eyebrow, glancing around the room to a few dossiers stashed underneath Jessica’s camera.

“I get to find pricks, expose them and get paid for it. And I’m my own boss.”

“Meanwhile, I’m stuck with bosses who all end up having weird secrets.” Karen sighed before glancing down back to the screen. “I’d love to do what you do. Expose the horrible shitty secrets people have. Not the personal ones, but the ones that ruin other people’s lives – you know? Find the truth, bring the villains to justice.”

“It pays well. Everybody has secrets, and some are dirty enough for people to want them exposed.” Jessica shrugged her shoulders, taking a brief glimpse around the dark and dingy apartment. The empty walls and plastered punch holes. The dark mould growing in the corner of the ceiling, and the almost empty liqueur cabinet. “But it’s lonely – quiet. You constantly see the shitty side of humanity.”

“Well, maybe you need company on the job,” Karen suggested, pouring herself another glass of bourbon as she felt embarrassed about her idea. “I could have a desk over there, start as a secretary?”

Jessica shook her head. “No, no. You are not working as a secretary again – you’re not working for another bullshit boss who’s gonna screw you over and leave you with some heavy shit to deal with.” Taking back her laptop, Jessica grinned and shut the lid. Her eyes fixed on Karen, before finally settling on a decision. “Okay – I might need some help with paperwork and taxes. But if you do actually want to work with me, you’re a PI, understood?”

Karen’s face lit up slightly before the smile faded. “I’d have to tell Matt and Foggy…”

“Honestly, with everything happening at the moment, their little law firm surviving isn’t very likely.” Bluntly stated Jessica, jolting up from her feet. She wandered into the kitchen before the rattling of the fridge echoed throughout the apartment. She groaned loudly and agitated, before wandering back into the office and rolling her eyes back at Karen. “Where the hell is Trish? Pizza doesn’t even take that lo-”

Before Jessica had finished with her complaint, the front door burst open and Trish’s frantically panicked eyes searched for her. Once their eyes had met and their gazes fixed on one another, her panting breath slowed. “Oh my god, thank god. Jess, stay calm and listen… He’s escaped-”

Chapter Text

The slow marching towards an unfavourable ending is approaching slowly. In your timeline, Kilgrave’s escape from his own prison was helped by Jeri Hogarth – but within this reality, this is significantly different. And with that difference, so too is the outcome of that escape. Little did Jessica know, that as she sought to bring an end to Kilgrave, she was marching towards a darker destiny.

***

Almost shattering door against the wall as she slammed it open, Jessica frantically threw her eyes around the three-roomed office of Nelson and Murdock. Without hesitation, she hurtled towards Matt’s office – which in the recent days had become something akin to a makeshift laboratory. Jars and tubes of liquids fizzled and bubbled, while Bunsen burners were kept alit to burn chemicals in jars.

Both of Kilgrave’s parents were anxious as they peered upwards, for a moment terrified that the sudden banging of doors was a sign that their son had returned. Fear surged through their veins as they briefly assumed their demise was nearby.

Except, as their eyes darted towards the door of Matt’s office, they watched as Jessica stormed inside. Her own eyes shot around the room, analysing the various kits, admiring them as though they were chemistry kits designed for kids. She promptly fixed her attention on the two British fools, who had enraged her so much that the mere sight made her already unsunny disposition grimmer.

“How’s that vaccine coming along?” The words trickled off of her tongue immediately, gazing towards the pair as she watched their faces express the relief that she wasn’t their homicidal son seeking revenge. Relaxing, they wandered back around the room, before retrieving a small needle. A clear liquid sat inside, as the man rested it in his hand. “Kilgrave’s escaped – and that means he’s coming for me next, so I need that vaccine.”

“It- it’s not tested at all yet, and we theorise that your immune sys-” Albert was abruptly interrupted as Jessica stormed across the room and snatched the needle from his hand. Brute strength partly aided her, though the frailty of the man prevented any resistance he’d pose.

“Listen – I need to go out there and sort this out. I’ll take whatever you think will work to make sure Kilgrave stays locked away for good.” Her blunt attitude seethed through her voice, while her stone-cold eyes and unphased expression aided the pure apathy she felt for the various scientific terms the old man was wanting to throw at her.

“There’s no guarantee that this could wo-”

“Your slimy cockroach of a son is back out there. A man who required hazmat suits and a soldiered squad to bring him in. It’s only a matter of time he gets to me – and then only a matter of time he gets to you. So, do you think this could genuinely work?”

Albert struggled for a moment. His mind fizzing with the various arguments against taking the vaccine. Though, before ling, Louise jumped forward. Her eyes brightened with some glee which Jessica couldn’t quite discern the cause of. “Yes – yes it could work. That shot could bolster your immune system and create a super protection against Kevin’s virus.” Her weary old voice sounded with gleaming hope, as she hurried towards Jessica. Resting her think bony hands-on Jessica’s, her eyes fixed with hers and she smiled gently.

“But-” Albert’s concerned voice was interrupted by Louise, who swivelled her head back towards her husband with a piercing rage-filled gaze.

Jessica glanced between the pair, moving her hand away from Louise. Hesitation was only natural, though she found herself somewhat comforted by Louise’s gentle smile. Her hand clutched onto the black leather sleeve that sat coldly against her wrist, before pulling it up along her arms. Once the sleeve of the jacket scrunched and tightened around her bicep, she readied the needle. The mere sight alone discomforted her, though the notion that it could guarantee security against Kilgrave soothed those anxieties.

With one swift jab into her vein, guided by Louise’s frail lightly shaking hand, Jessica watched as the needle pierced her skin. The liquid oozed into her system, beginning to act on her immune system. Plucking out the needle like a wooden splinter trapped in a finger, she watched as blood began to trickle outwards – hurriedly covering it with a small cotton ball.

“Well then, let’s hope this shit works.” She stated, removing the fluffy ball, and quickly plastering it up and shooting her sleeve back down her arm. Little attention was given to Kilgrave’s parents as she hurried out of the room, wanting to ensure she found herself at the facility Kilgrave had been taken to as soon as possible – and wanting to escape their draining presence.

“Wait,” Shouted Louise nervously, watching through the distorted glass that lined the inner wall of Matt’s office. “What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know,” Jessica shouted, her voice echoing throughout the apartment as she did so. “Probably snap his neck if I get close enough.”

***

Swarming Kilgrave’s facility was almost every resource Fisk’s money could tap into. A cluster of soldiers and armoured trucks sat outside the prison yard, which almost looked like an office building fixed behind tall brick walls and caked in barbed wire. They each clasped onto guns, aiming towards a figure stood at the edge of the building, with a gleaming white light cast over them.

Even from far away, the purple of the man’s suit was indistinguishable. Unmistakably, as he stood under the pure white light of the helicopter's torch, Kilgrave stared down. It was almost as though he was smiling, admiring the attention he had brought himself in attempting to escape.

Amongst the soldiers and trucks, Jessica swiftly spotted Wilson Fisk, who stood tall in a white suit. His hands fiddled with the cufflinks on his sleeves, while a woman in a black dress clung to his arms. They both watched the display, as the soldiers waited patiently with guns clutched in their hands and microphones projecting their careful voices throughout the sky.

“I came as soon as I could,” Jessica lied convincingly, ignoring the detour to Kilgrave’s laboratory she had taken beforehand. “How’d he escape? This place doesn’t exactly look easy to get out of.” There was a sense of jitteriness in her voice, as she now became haunted by the reality of Kilgrave’s escape. Her eyes flickered upwards towards the man perched on the ledge of the building, who stood under a glorious spotlight. He stood, at centre stage of hundreds of soldiers and SWAT teams, all ready to take action on Wilson Fisk’s orders.

“Not yet.” Fisk, as the man of few words that he was, glared back to Jessica with a piercing glare. Nodding her head, she surveyed the land. Barbed wire fences, with trenches between either side of the barriers, separate the soldiers and SWAT teams from the facility's yard. The building itself was dimly lit, with only the emergency power supplying the red lights that glistened from inside.

Jessica counted six SWAT vans and three army trucks, though she gave up at trying to count the number of armed people waiting patiently for their next order. Stood beside Fisk was Jessica’s next observation, as a stunning and familiar woman clutched to his arm, with an expression that didn’t quite capture the fear you’d expect from a civilian stood outside the facility where an incredibly dangerous man stood.

Fisk noticed Jessica’s curious gaze, and as his attention was brought back to the love of his life, he felt some comfort in himself. The chaos and danger that had engulfed the attention of the authoritative forces had temporally seized to cause any concern. Instead, the mere beauty of the woman clasped onto his arms brought a solace.

“Vanessa, meet Jessica Jones. Miss Jones, meet Vanessa.” Fisk carefully waved his hand between the two, watching as they courteously smiled to one another.

“Fisk had told me about you, Miss Jones. Despite everything that has happened here, I still wish to say thank you.” Jessica’s cautiously raised eyebrow voiced her confusion, as she stared back towards the woman. “For capturing Kilgrave. This monster has terrorised Wilson, and if you’re assistance in apprehending him is greatly appreciated by me.”

“Don’t thank me yet, the sack of shit’s still roaming.” Bluntly replied Jessica, her eyes fixing on the purpled-suited man, who’s black leather shoes clung to the ledge. Fisk and Vanessa ignored Jessica’s vulgarity, turning back towards the man who sat at the centre of their forces attention.

Gesturing his arm away from Vanessa, Fisk marched towards the hood of the closest car, which was host to a small white megaphone. His hands clutched onto the handle, as his eyes glanced through the gleaming lights that shone around, almost disorientating him as the helicopter swept through the air.

“Mr Kilgrave – stand down!” Fisk’s booming voice rang through the megaphone, the sheer volume extrapolated as it did so. Eyes briefly peered towards Fisk, who’s large body began to step through the crowd. Kilgrave’s eyes peered down towards Fisk, though his face was merely a blend of skin and hair from afar. “These men will shoot on sight if you attempt anything. Stand down, and accept you arrest.”

Fisk’s voice was heard throughout the air, even if slightly disturbed by the overhanging helicopter. For a moment, Kilgrave peered back behind him. His attention turning back towards the roof, almost as though he was considering the instruction. From the far distance that the armed forced stood, the intentions of Kilgrave’s were unclear, before his head turned back towards the crowd.

Although his face was obscured by the distance, anybody nearby could see the devilish smile that had seized his expression.

After a moment of uncertainty, the crowd watched as a man in a white lab coat emerged on the ledge. His fear was evident in his trembling hands and his quivering voice, as he pled with Kilgrave – though nobody from beyond the gates could quite discern what was happening.

“Tell him to get down, Kilgrave!” Fisk ordered, his voice bellowing throughout the air as his lips edged closely against the megaphone in his hands.

Jessica leapt forward, thrusting her hand on Fisk’s shoulder as she quickly realised what was about to happen. And although it was evident that the man was seconds away from jumping off, likely under Kilgrave’s influence, Jessica knew the only solution.

“Let me talk.” She stated, almost fighting Fisk’s brute strength with her own as she shifted the man’s body around. “I can stop this.”

“Miss Jones, this is not your busin-” Fisk’s loud voice was interrupted by a harrowing scream that broke through the air. It’s agony sounding over the helicopters chopper, dragging their attention towards the roof as now there only stood a single man.

Kilgrave had made it abundantly clear that he was the only one giving the instructions.

“Shoot that man!” Fisk ordered, slamming his fist down against the hood of his own car. The black metal dented slightly as he did so, before watching an array of lights flash around him. Were it not a cascade of bullets showring through the air, it would have been quite wonderful. Though the bellowing sound of gunfire, as bullets pierced the air and their cases clanged against the ground, the sight was very much brought to an end as the man continued standing.

The crowd stood stunned, as he appeared unaffected by the array of bullets. And though some had hit the man, they only collided against his suit – which had been met with some modification by the Hand. With a brief glance back to the selection of people he’d dragged into his plan, he called up the next.

A guard, whose long red hair caped down from her hat. Her uniform shimmered slightly under the light, as the buttons and badge and pieces of metal reflected the glimmered under the attention of the lights. Kilgrave turned his head towards her, with a dastardly smirk.

“Fancy a wager?” He stated, watching as she nervously peered her head around towards him. She could feel herself seconds away from death, the wind flowing through her air as the cold stench of the nearby water staining the air with moisture. Her body trembled as she tried to not move any further. “You fancy a wager.” Kilgrave stated cunningly, prompting the woman to agree that she did in fact fancy a wager. “If Jessica attempts to be a hero, you jump. If she doesn’t, however, you push that plumber over there off the ledge.”

Nobody needed to be close to Kilgrave to spot his amusement, though it was still unknown to the crowd that his eyes had now set upon Jessica. Her leather jacket and wrapped scarf was clear from his distance, as her pale skin was complemented by her black hair that curled every so slightly as it ran down her head.

She seized the megaphone from Fisk’s hand, now feeling that her eyes had locked with the Devil’s glare. Her heart raced, hoping that the vaccine had worked as she stepped forward. The crowd and Fisk warned her against it, rather aggressively as their voices raised, though Jessica didn’t care.

“Alright, asshole.” She shouted, bringing a silence to the voices that shouted against her. “Stop this.” Kilgrave threw his hands up, his smile clearer now as her eyes fixed on his face, though still blurred by the distance. “Set them free and I’ll come to you.”

Kilgrave tutted, his voice too quiet to be heard from below. His head swivelled back towards the cluster of people he’d pulled to the roof, while a sinister smile set across his face. His mind considered what he could do – what outrageous thing could provoke the ferocity of Jessica Jones that he loved so dearly.

“Well, you heard the woman, you’re free!” Kilgrave shouted towards them, smiling dastardly. There was a relief that set upon the people, as his words brought some sense of control over themselves once again. They panted and sighed, almost cheered as they clambered towards the exit. The woman on the ledge almost leapt back down to the roof in pure relief that freedom had come to her, terrified by the near death she had just experienced. “No! Stop!” Kilgrave’s rage-filled voice bellowed throughout the air, watching as they froze once again. “Not that kind of freedom.”

The whisp of the wind sounded past Kilgrave’s ears as he peered backwards. Beyond the winds howling and the chopping of the helicopter, there was no sound amongst the roof. The people froze for a moment, as they considered Kilgrave’s instruction. They stared towards him blankly for a moment, the sheer terror of their realisation dissipating once their bodies enacted Kilgrave’s instruction.

From a distance, the sight seemed hopeful. The hostages Kilgrave had kept weren’t visible, and the helicopter reported of their freedom. Though it wasn’t long before it was clear things had turned south, as six or seven of the hostages reached the top of the roof.

“No! Don’t!” Jessica’s voice screamed through the megaphone, causing a painful feedback sound that prompted everybody around her to wince. As the collective crowd ducked their heads and clasped their hands beside their ears, they missed the sight of the hostages gaining their freedom in Kilgrave’s sick and twisted way.

Once the crowd glanced back towards the roof, they could now only see the purple suited man, who wagged his hand in gesture to Jessica, before retreating from the roof ledge. There was silence and anxiety, an uncertainty as to what they should do next.  

Jessica, however, felt no anticipation. With a simple glance back to Fisk, and an expression that read ‘I’ll sort this’, she pushed past the armed men. Even those who tried to stop her felt an unexpected strength surge from her hands. Pushing aside the barriers and cinderblocks they’d set up outside the gated entrance, and ripping off the barrier that gave ways to cars, she made her way inside.

Venturing through the facility, Jessica resorted to a locked fire exit, which she promptly managed to open without any difficulty. Hastily leaping up the stairwell, she was at least relieved by the fact that she had guaranteed not seeing the grim remains of the building that Kilgrave could have left. She had found wet footprint marks running down the stairs as she reached higher up the stairwell, though their indistinguishable features and irrelevancy kept her mind focused on reaching the rooftop.

Nothing about the rooftop was at all remarkable. Beside a few vents and fire escape doors, and the helicopter that had distanced itself slightly further, there was nothing else for Jessica to pay attention to. Instead, her eyes fixed on Kilgrave. Cast under the white light of the helicopter, like an actor centre stage, Kilgrave’s haunting smile fixed to his face as he fixed his eyes onto her.

“I didn’t quite imagine it like this, Jessica.” He stated, transfixed on her beauty. He was obsessed with every detail. His heart compassionate for every aspect of her. “I wanted to make it special! I wanted to give you your childhood home – build a life together. Have cooks and maids – perhaps even bully a few shitty neighbours.” Kilgrave expression now shifted, his obsession transforming into a sadness. Regretful that he never had the chance to give her the life he wanted to.

“Why would I want that? Why would anybody want to be stuck with you for the rest of their lives? You’re a monster. A murderer, a manipulator, an abuser, a rapi-”

“Don’t you dare say that word. I hate it – you know I hate it.”

“Why?” Jessica tilted her head, raising her eyebrow as she fixed her gaze to him, his words bringing her own to a halt. “It’s what you are. The things you made me do. Made Karen do. I can’t imagine what you must have been like in your teenage years, should we start looking into crimes you probably committed back in England? After your little tantrum with your parents?"

Kilgrave stopped smiling. Within seconds, his mind had been cast back towards his childhood. An area of his he had buried. A shameful, haunting and traumatic memory that he swore to remove all evidence of ever occurring.

Amongst the silence, Kilgrave watched her carefully, trying to figure out what she knew. “They came to meet you – didn’t they? That’s how you knew about the virus and the sedatives. Oh good girl! There’s me thinking you thought of it on your own, but in the end you managed to actually work with other people.” His eyes observed her once more, admiring her before he considered his next question. “Let me guess, they gave you something to kill me?”

Jessica shook her head. “We both know if I wanted to kill you, I’d have done so already. No, I want to make you suffer. I want you to stare at a blank wall for the rest of your life, isolated in a white, cold room for every day that you have left. I want you to rot and spend everyday trying to find a way to escape until one day I visit your sorry ass in that prison. And I find a weak old man, who is still clearly struggling with mummy issues.”

“That’s quite the image – how long have you been thinking of that one?” He asked condescendingly, ignoring the rage and pain in her voice.

"From the very moment I met you."

"Don’t act like that.” Kilgrave bluntly replied, instantly silencing Jessica for a moment. He watched as her face changed from a rage filled expression to a blank one, and a strange confusion set across her face – though he ignored it, intending to use the silence to express his love for her. “You loved me. I gave you so many chances to leave and you didn’t – you wanted to be with me. And yes, I did some things I wasn’t proud of, like your ear. But I wanted to test your loyalty – and it wasn’t until you killed Reeva you turned against me.”

“You made me kill her.”

Kilgrave shook his head, wincing almost in offence as he spun around on the spot for a moment. “No!” He shouted back towards her, extending his arm towards her with anger resonating in his eyes. “You did that. I told you to take care of her. Those exact words.”

“You knew what you meant!” The memories of that night came flooding into her mind, like a sea of dreadful history she’d rather buried than confront ever again.

“I can’t help it!” Kilgrave shouted back towards her, enraged for a moment. “My parents screwed me up so that the rest of my life, I’d have to choose every word carefully. I had to make sure every command I made dangerous. None of this is my fault – in fact, if you want to blame someone, blame my lovely mother and father. Do you know what they did?”

“Yes.” She quickly added angrily, almost ashamed to know. “And your parents aren’t angels. But what you’ve done – using your powers to kill and abuse and manipulate and harm? You’re worse than those two could have ever been.”

“And what about you, Jessica. How many people have you killed? How many people have you manipulated or harmed or abused in anyway?” The rage shifted into a smirk that encapsulated his arrogance, as he stared at Jessica with a demeaning glint in his eyes. “You’re almost as bad as me.” Now he spoke softly.

“Don’t compare us – we’re nowhere near the same. The only time we’ve ever been similar is when you were controlling me. Manipulating me.”

“No! No!” Shouted the purple suited man, gesturing in her direction to keep her silent. “We are similar. All I did was expose a part of you – a part you don’t want to confront. The part I love. Because that’s all this is about. I want you to love me, like I love you.”

Jessica’s face couldn’t quite distinguish between rage and disgust as she glared towards him. “You sick bastard. I’d rather gouge my eyes out than love you.”

Kilgrave laughed, trying to supress the heartbreak and frustration which fuzzed in his mind. “Why don’t you do that then? Gouge your eyes out.” Kilgrave stated flippantly, used to throwing instructions like that around and his influence being met. However, he felt so comfortable being so flippant because he was aware of Jessica’s disposition towards his instruction. She had broken free the night she killed Reeva, and he’d assumed that was the first sign of her immunity.

However, to his surprise, he watched as Jessica froze. Her skin turned pale and flushed, as her eyes stared towards him doe eyed. He stared confused for a moment, though watching her raising hand which trembled against her resistance, he gradually realised what was happening. Her finger edged closer to her own eye, as Kilgrave’s instruction now began to take form as her own will. Somewhere deep down, something tried to fight against it, but now she could feel her resistance was weaker.

In her mind she screamed, and her own voice let out a pleading cry as she began to realise what was happening. Now she stared towards her finger, some grub under her fingernail from where she’d shifted around the dirty banister of the stairwell.

“Stop!” Kilgrave yelled, suddenly, leaving Jessica’s gaze to fixate on her finger, which now froze in place before her. He stood transfixed, feeling an arrogance consume him that he thought he’d lost the night Reeva had died – an arrogance he’d carried around as a masquerade to convince Jessica he was still in control. “What’s happened? Why are you following my instructions?”

“I- I don’t know.” Jessica’s voice shook as her eyes darted around. “I took the vaccine... protected myself against you.”

“Don’t trick me, Jessica. Don’t even try.”

“I’m not.” Her voice trembled now, feeling her intention shifting towards not tricking him. “Stop this. Let me go.”

“Shit!” Kilgrave’s voice beckoned through the air, echoing around him as he began to pace around. “This is good. Convincing me to let my guard down. Making me think I have power.”

“Oh shut up you asshole, not everybody’s like you. Planning every step ahead, manipulating people for what they want. Let me go, or I swear I will have them shoot you.”

Kilgrave stared towards her, curious to know what he could do. What test he could perform to guarantee that this was real. Cautiously approaching her, he felt the thrill he craved. The adrenaline and the rush, the pure joy of simply being near her – drawing off the personality she holstered to protect herself.

Before long, he stood just a few feet away from her. It had been a while since he was this close – he could almost remember the last time – in a fancy hotel, paid for by the concierge who swiftly beat himself to a pulp with a tray after interrupting their night.

“Put your arm down and give me your scarf.” His instruction was met, as Jessica promptly felt relief in her arm’s free movement and she unwrapped her scarf from her neck. She carefully handed it over to Kilgrave, whose hands snatched the cream cotton from her fists and pressed it against his nose. Her scent, imprinted on it. He paused, thinking about how he’d missed that smell. Now his eye darted towards Jessica, who seemed fixed to the spot as she watched him. “You, Jessica, deserve an oscar or something. Because this acting is very convincing. But I know it’s not real, because the real Jessica would probably snap my neck before I made her say ‘I love you’.”

“Don’t.” Jessica cautioned, unsure of her own self as she did so.

Carefully approaching her, he grinned as his eyes met hers. He lurked over her, his hot breath piercing her nose and sense of smell, while his gleaming teeth and sinister look in his eyes remained.

“Say it. Tell me you love me.”

Chapter Text

As Jessica Jones fought with a demon she despised, Matthew Murdock suffered greatly against his own. His conflict with Wilson Fisk had not assisted his cause, and he now found himself vulnerable. Across the various years he had attempted to fight crime that littered the dirty streets of Hell’s Kitchen, he had always felt invulnerable. Now, however, he felt his own world collapsing in on itself.

With his options of safe escapes limiting, he promptly found himself arriving back to his office – although with the lingering voice of Kilgrave loitering in his mind, his discovery would only worsen.

***

Matt felt slightly disorientated as he stumbled through the office door, which explained his failure to notice the two beating hearts inside his office. Besides that, he also failed to notice the smell of chemicals and unusual cologne and perfume, as well as the particularly obscure sound of unfamiliar voices belonging to an elderly British couple.

It wasn’t until he’d slammed the office door behind him and he leaned against the door that the world came back into focus. All of the oddities swarmed around him, leading him to scurry towards his office confusedly. He froze at the door as he swung it open, now getting a full picture of the room in his mind. He could hear the various setups of chemistry equipment that lined the room, with potent smells disguising that of the couple, who silenced themselves in Matt’s sudden appearance.

They too fell paralysed at the sight of Matt, though primarily because they didn’t see a normal man as they’d expect. Instead, they watched a hunched panting man, whose face was covered by a purple horned cowl and his torso and arms and legs plastered in body armour. Their eyes stared cautiously, quite uncertain what to do.

"Please – don’t hurt us!” Exclaimed the woman, whose heartbeat skyrocketed as she leapt backwards into her husband's arms. “We’ll get out of here. We’ll find a cure for Kilgrave’s powers – just please.” Her pleading panic now sounded through her terrified words as her grip tightened on her husband's skinny arm.

“You…” Matt murmured for a moment, trying to make sense of what the terrified woman had blurted out in her sudden panic. “You can cure it?”

“We intend to, at least.” Spoke the man, and though his heart and slight panic indicated the anxiety he felt, it in no way matched that of his wife’s. Instead, he seemed calm and collected as he responded to the masked vigilante, hoping to settle the tension before things got out of hand. His wife seemed relieved at the very least, as Matt could sense her heartbeat beginning to slowly fall. “Jessica Jones said it was best we stay here.”

“But how do you know about Kilgrave?” Considering Matt’s abilities, it wasn’t particularly difficult to notice the rising anxiety is question caused. A spiking heartbeat was noticeable to a man who could sense footsteps miles away. Pounding in their chests, their hearts signified their guilt. The remorse and regret consumed them, eating away at them. Patiently, he waited for the answer. He knew it was important to some extent.

At first, neither of the elderly coupled spoke up. Though as Matt’s patience wore thin and the gnawing rage that Kilgrave had planted began to wither out – though planted was a loose term. Matt hadn’t quite figured out if this rage was exposed by Kilgrave, like a rabbit revealing the deadly copper wires beneath a rubber cable by endless chewing, or he’d almost transferred it and seeded it into his mind. Neither mattered, as it now festered in his mind.

An abrupt shout from Matt, which came unexpectedly, had caused the woman to whimper, as the man clutched his hand onto her tightly. His grip kept her in a calming embrace, as he admitted a truth he resented with his very soul. “He’s- He is our son.” Super hearing wasn’t necessary to detect the pang of painful guilt that now cast itself over the man.

Matt’s concentration shifted, however, as a piercing ringing beckoned through his head. It transformed from white noise into an agonising scraping, like nails on a chalkboard or an axe dragging along a metal grate. As the pain worsened, Matt could now hear the sounds change into words – a voice forming from the pain ringing in his head.

“Fucking bastards!” The voice screamed in his head, undoubtedly that of Kilgrave. The British accent and vulgar nature and unrestricted and unbridled rage was far too familiar to Matt. “What kind of monsters create a fucked-up kid like me, eh?” Matt stumbled back slightly, knocking into a table gently as he did so, rocking the chemistry equipment which was mounted on top of it. His hands clasped onto his head as his eyes squinted shut and he winced in the pure agony of the voice in his mind.

“Stop. No. No.” Matt repeated, his voice growing louder, though it was only directed to Kilgrave’s painful bellowing in his mind.

“I bet these assholes have something to hide. Let’s find it out, Matthew. Me and you – a team again.” The voice proposed, and Matt could now imagine the man’s hand reaching out towards him. The purple sleeve of his jacket ran up his arm, revealing the extended slim hand of the devil. “Ask them what they did!”

Although the voice that had forced itself into Kilgrave’s mind, like a weed pressing through a crack in a pavement slab, Matt felt the compulsion to comply. There was no logic in the sensation that he felt, no biological argument that explained it – though, within seconds of Kilgrave’s voice teetering on the edge of his mind, he felt his mouth open.

“What did you do to Kilgrave?” Matt shouted, stumbling forward as he felt a moment of peace resides over him. The sound fizzled out of his mind and he focused his attention back on the jumping heartbeats of oozing sweat that indicated the anxiety of the elderly couple. “Tell me!” Matt declared infuriated.

“We did experiments- to-to help him. Fix his con-condition!” The woman’s trembling voice sounded now, interjecting before her husband could – knowing full well his ill-timed temper was best left alone. “But something went wrong and he got powers – we ran away from him because his tantrums were getting worse and we suffered… a lot. I assume, by that cross, you kept in your drawer, that you’re Catholic, Matthew. And in your world, I suppose this was justice for our sins.”

“Bullshit!” Kilgrave’s voice rang in his mind once again, provoking a sudden wince as Matt shook his head. “I’m the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen – remember. You’re my acolyte. We’re the only ones who determine sins and justice around here.”

“You… made him?” Matt murmured, as the voice quietened amongst his own thoughts. “Not just in a natural parent way, but your actions made the monster that he is? You did this?” A soothing rage calmed Matt’s voice, as his senses jumped around the room.

“We were trying to save him!”

“Then you abandoned him…” Matt’s mind cast back to the fleeting memories he had of his own dad. The faint and fuzzy memories he had of his face, but also his voice and the calm he felt around him. In his mind were the sudden emergence of the memories the night he found his father dead in an alley. The pain and terror he felt as he realised he’d lost his dad. “You don’t know what that kind of abandonment does to a person. What it makes them do!”

“We- we do know. We were younger – more scared and confused by Kevin than you could imagine. W- We did everything we could to help him and in the end all we received in appreciation was torture.”

“Well, you deserved it.”

“But it’s okay now!” The man interjected, noticing the predatorial snarl that crossed Matt’s face for a moment. “We found a vaccine. A cure! We gave it to Jessica, who is dealing with him right now.”

Matt faced a moment of serenity, as the news almost felt like it eradicated the weeding rage and voice that Kilgrave had planted, like a repellent. A weight lifted from his shoulders and a calmness passed over him.

Though that quietness died almost immediately, as the raging voice of Kilgrave beckoned in his mind again. “There’s no way they can fix the shit they’ve done, Matt. Not to me, not to you.”

Matt stumbled forward before he felt a feral rage consume him. Edging towards the sticks attached to his sides, his hands clasped onto the metal poles. They were still battered by his conflict with Jessica, though were still serviceable for his endeavours. Raising his head slightly, his limited vision caught onto the firey landscape of his office, latching onto two faint silhouettes.

Encouraged by the rage that bristled in his mind, he swung the metal poles around the room, smashing against glass bottles and flasks. Chemicals burst out from them, while Bunson burners disconnected from their gas supplies and clashed against the ground.

The man leapt towards switching off the gas, not wanting to leave the air filtered with uncontrollable gas. Though he quickly found himself hounded by Matt, whose trembling hands evidenced his rage. “You did this. You did all of this.” Throwing the poles against the wall, denting it slightly as he did so, he marched towards the man. His fist clutched onto the man’s collar, where he could feel the man’s heartbeat pounding in his pulse. He raised him against the ground slightly, hearing the whimpers of both of them.

“Please- let him go.” Pleaded the woman, whose hand brushed against his amour. Yet Matt didn’t listen. Instead, he pushed the man further, pinning him against the wall as he felt the agony in his mind surge once again. He winced as he heard Kilgrave taunt him again, before he turned his attention back up towards him.

“Do you know how many lives you’ve ruined?” Matt questioned, hearing the man’s gasps for air loudly hit against his ears.

“Too many.” Answered the woman, her voice now attracting his attention. Matt turned his head towards her, hearing the remorse she felt. He could tell it wasn’t a selfish guilty remorse that had been eating away at her – but a guilt and regretful remorse. The realisation that she had caused so much pain and suffering in just the simple decision to leave her son behind. “We just want to fix it, please. Let us stop hi-”

Kilgrave’s voice and the pain that followed had played havoc on Matt’s senses. The disorientating sensation had led him to fail to even notice that footsteps had hurried up the stairs. Now, however, he caught onto a mixture of stale beer and bad cologne. His head turned towards the entrance of the door and he could immediately recognise the panting of Foggy Nelson – though Foggy’s abrupt call into the room was merely another clue to who had arrived so unexpectedly.

“Matt! Stop it!” Foggy cried, hurrying towards the armoured man, before trying to release his hands from the man’s collar. Finally succeeding, Foggy helped in lowering the man, before turning his eyes back towards Matt. “What the hell are you doing? You know you can’t just go around assaulting innocent people. I mean criminals are one thing, but t-”

“They are criminals, Foggy.” Matt’s voice was weak and quivering. He couldn’t make sense of his own actions. The rage that controlled him without mercy. “They did all of this.”

“No, they didn’t. Sure, they fucked up – did some things that created Kilgrave. But that doesn’t mean they’re to blame.”

Matt turned his head, puzzled for a moment. His eyes fixed on his best friend as he ignored the scraping and painful voice that jittered around in his mind. His attention fixed on Foggy’s breathing and his panicked heartbeat, trying his best to block out the clawing voice that had embedded itself in his mind.

“We’re all products of how we’re raised. Basic fundamental concept there, Foggy. And Kilgrave was raised by parents who did experiments on him and then abandoned him.”

“I get it, Matt. I do. A lot of the fucked up things Kilgrave is doing can be traced back to them – but you’re not helping anyone at the moment by threatening them.” Foggy’s rationality began to soothe Matt slightly, calming him. It had felt like too long that somebody cared for him, although most of that feeling of loneliness was the result of Kilgrave’s horrid clutch on his mind. “None of this is you, Matt. What’s wrong? What’s happening?”

Matt's snarl and rage began to fade, transforming into regret and remorse. Terror quivered his lips and trembled his hands, as the clawing voice of Kilgrave worsened in his mind. “He won’t go away, Foggy…” He whispered quietly, trying to not expose his ailment to the room. Foggy stared back towards him, unsure whether he felt scared or shocked or confused. “His voice is still in here… Like a part of him is stuck here, with me.”

“I think we need to get you a doctor – or a therapist. Or someone who can help.”

“No. I have to get out of here – Fisk is going to send the police after me and I need to escape.”

“What?” Foggy jumped forward slightly, clasping his hands around Foggy as a moment of anxiety spiked his heartbeat and his breathing. “You can’t go running off now. You need help – we can help you.”

“What you’re facing,” The man interjected, having been eavesdropping despite Matt’s clear intention to avoid it. “It’s unprecedented. Kilgrave’s pathogens have a short life span, but you’re displaying some kind of… long-lasting effect his powers have.”

Matt’s head swivelled back towards the man almost within an instant, erasing the calming efforts Foggy had employed. Kilgrave voice scratched away, shouting and screaming in his mind. An impulsive thought clenched his fist, though Foggy’s hands still held onto him, restricting any further impulses that Kilgrave’s voice prompted in his mind.

“There is no way I’m letting you two experiment on me,” Matt replied without hesitation, before turning his head back towards Foggy.

As he prepared himself, hoping to find either the words to convince Foggy, or the strength to escape, his ears caught onto a screeching of tires downstairs. A parade of footsteps followed the opening of a car door, while the clanking of body armour and metal clinks of rifles funnelled his attention to downstairs. His nose caught onto the smell of musty uniforms and bullet residue, while the sounds of the body armour were followed by the panting breath of men and women who climbed the stairs to his apartment.

“I need to go.” Matt stated, pushing Foggy out of the way, before hurriedly approaching the doorway. His head turned back, catching one final flash of his office. He had hoped that one day it could grow into something new and beautiful and powerful – that he’d make some real change, help innocent people. Become a really good lawyer.

But the situation demanded that those hopes died. The arrival of troops, either SWAT or soldiers he hadn’t quite realised yet, forced him out of the office. Leaving the elderly couple to watch, still unnerved as they held onto one another again, meanwhile Foggy followed his friend.

Hallways had always been the easiest place for his senses. A narrow corridor, allowing himself to hear every sound, and calculate every move his opponents would make. It was almost like a chess game, though a board with the width of three tiles, and a king with every possible move in the game. The outnumbering of Matt in this game of chess seemed unfair and untactical, but his mind was busy working away to ensure he could figure out his direct path of the corridor.

The lights flickered out, though that was no disadvantage to Matt. He panted, under the darkness of the corridor which was only illuminated by the silver glow of the moon through the few windows that cast light far enough. He stood, frozen for a moment. They were two floors away.

“Foggy, get back inside.”

“No!” Foggy retaliated, as the marching troops reached a floor higher. “Don’t face them like this! You’re only putting yourself in danger!” His concerns, however, were immediately thwarted by the reality of the situation.

A door at the end of the corridor burst open, revealing a barrage of SWAT team troops. They marched almost synchronised, clasping onto their guns and moving in uniform, before stopping as they caught sight of the figure of Matt Murdock.

He wasn’t quite ‘the masked vigilante’ anymore, as he stood plated in armour, and fashioning weapons at his hip. But he was an outlaw, sought out by the police for his actions.

The SWAT Team had given Matt a chance. They had ordered him to stand down, as their guns pointed towards him, far across the other end of the corridor. Asking only two more times for him to stand down, they moved closer, before the man situated at the front made the regretful decision to call their fire.

As though he was an outlaw in an old western movie, caught in a stand-off, he edged his hands towards the metal poles holstered to his hips. Hearing the scratching of the metal of their guns, he swiftly launched the poles at the two closest to him. They spun through the air before a loud clang sounded as the protective face shield shattered against the projectile and their heads banged against the wall.

What followed was a series of gunshots, which either Matt managed to miss by detecting them or had bounced off his armour. He jolted down the corridor, whisking guns from his hands and throwing his fists around to whoever was closest or posed a threat. He used the ends of their rifles as weapons themselves, flipping against walls and ducking and jumping all to escape the shower of bullets and swarm of antagonization they posed.

Fighting his way to escape, Matt reached the final troop. Behind him was a litter of bodies and though they were all alive, he had left them in bloody or critical conditions. Now he stood over the last troop, who began his attempt to take Matt down himself. Though with the protective layer of body armour and the fast feline-like reflex, Matt had made it almost impossible to fight.

The masked man holstered the man in the air holding him above his head. His knee jerked up and his hands dragged the SWAT trooper down. The mans back slammed against his knee, with the horrific crackling of his spine echoing through the corridor as the man let out a purely agonised scream.

Matt panted and sighed, as he dropped the man. He felt every essence of guilt as he now realised the pain he had left in his own escape. The bloodshed and bullet holes and broken bones.

“That, Matthew, was incredible. I mean, congratulations from me!”

In the brief moment that Matt’s attention had been claimed by the gnawing voice of Kilgrave, he hadn’t noticed the trooper sneaking into the corridor. His attention had been so frazzled, that he fell vulnerable to the cunning efforts of this troop.

The man took no hesitation in shooting Matt, though his specific aim wasn’t targeted for his head, nor his body. And sat in his hands was not an ordinary gun. As he pulled the trigger and gave Matt very limited time to jump out of the way, he watched as a sedative-coated dart pricked his neck. Like a predator calmed in the wild, Matt stumbled and groaned and rage began to slowly fade from his emotions. A dreariness passed over him, and in one final act of retaliation, his arm launched the pole towards the man – feeling some satisfaction in the loud clanging collision.

***

Where, in your universe, Matt Murdock remained unknown as a vigilante, and his criminal antagonist Wilson Fisk was escorted away by agents (twice), the opposite can be said for this timeline. Now, as the masked vigilante was forced into a sleepy state and would later find himself awaking in an unwelcoming prison cell, Fisk stood amongst other troops.

His lovely night with the love of his life had been brought to a dreadful end with the fate of Jessica and the escape of Kilgrave, but the news that Matthew Murdock had been arrested for his crimes had brought some relief to his evening.

*TWO DAYS LATER*

As the media frenzy swarmed the story of a night-life vigilante roaming the streets of Hells Kitchen, while he led the double life as a lawyer, those who knew Matt suffered from his absence. Foggy had barely left the office, sitting at his desk and staring down at a photograph of him and Matt at college all those years ago. His need for food and drink and sleep were all deprived by the dire sadness he felt in knowing what his best friend had succumbed to.

The silence of the office was partially due to Kilgrave’s parents escaping soon after Matt was arrested – finding a safer location that they hoped would leave them unnoticed. Besides the distant ambience of New York, and the police investigators who came in to scan every aspect of the office, Foggy was embroiled in his own silence.

That was until the interruption of Karen Page had brought a slight jump of his heart. A smile across his face as he leapt to his feet. Neither had realised the other was indoors, as Foggy sat motionless in his chair and Karen wandered in quietly to retrieve something from her receptionist's desk.

“Karen!” Foggy let out, relieved somewhat at the sight of normality. His eager voice was a sign of his desperation and loneliness.

“Foggy… are you okay?” His scruffy hair and dark eyes were merely a sign of his lack of care for his own health over the past two days. Foggy nodded his head and dismissed it quickly as he wandered towards the desk, now feeling a groaning in his stomach as it fed on the bare minimum that he had eaten. “I just came by to pick up some stuff about Fisk.”

Foggy stood quietly for a moment, casting his mind back just a week, when everything had seemed normal. He recalled her investigative efforts into the life of Wilson Fisk and his questionable dealings. Surprise crossed his face, feeling some pity for himself that she had chosen the Fisk case over the clearest case that had affected them all. Though he quickly felt an urge to rationalise Karen’s reasoning, smiling suddenly as a burst of energy shot through him.

“Why didn’t I think of that?” Foggy asked, throwing Karen off as she stood unaware of what he meant. “If we expose everything that Fisk has done, then we prove that Matt was justified. Throw in the fact he was controlled by Kilgrave too, and we have a solid argu-”

“No, no.” Karen interjected, nervously glancing as she realised Foggy had clearly caught the wrong understanding of her return. “I want to take down Fisk for what he did to me. Matt doesn’t need to be let out, he needs help. You said it yourself, he’s still affected by Kilgrave. Not to mention, finding Jessica is my main priority here.”

“Is she still missing?”

“Foggy, she was last seen on a rooftop with Kilgrave. I think it’s quite obvious she’s not just missing. I’m going to find her and bring her home, just like she did for me. And, in the meantime, I’m looking after her house. Last thing she’ll want is to return home and find herself homeless.”

“So, you’re becoming a P.I until she gets back?” Foggy wondered, nodding his head towards the camera sitting in the brown satchel holstered around her should and down her waist. Karen glanced down at the camera, with a brief smile. She felt guilty for feeling any sense of happiness, but there was comfort in the camera.

“It is Jessica’s business after all and I don’t imagine Nelson and Murdock is hiring me for long. Plus, there’s something about… searching for a story. Bringing an answer to light.”

“Except, unlike a journalist… you’re bringing affairs to light.” Karen sighed slightly at the gloomy outlook Foggy had, before taking a final glance around the office. She considered the few days she had spent here, comforted by Foggy and Matt’s warmth.

“I know you’re probably going to get upset with me, because I’m prioritising Jessica over Matt. But just know, I still appreciate everything you and Matt did for me. Defeating that court case, taking me in and being my friends… it means a lot to me.” Karen smiled at Foggy, and though it was a weak smile, her sincerity was unquestionable. She held out her arms and clasped them around Foggy, feeling regret slightly that she’d have to leave him.

“Matt was going to run away before they caught him. Part of me is relieved he’s somewhere safe – and I understand. Jessica rescued you both and it’s only right you find her.” He took a deep breath and glanced around the entrance of the office. There remained an optimistic side of him, yearning for the idea that he, Matt and Karen could make this business work. That they could team up as lawyers and investigators and bring justice. But the realistic, cynical side of him knew the truth.

“I think…” Hesitating for a moment, Karen sighed and fixed her eyes on Foggy again. A smile still etched across her face as she did so. “I think you should get out. Go be a lawyer and help Matt – help all the people who are suffering because of Kilgrave. And then, when we’ve got them both back, we’ll see what the future holds for this place.”

Foggy sighed once more, as his eyes lingered around the room. Karen said her goodbyes, hugging him once more before passing back through the bloodstained hallway. He felt the silence of the room surround him, while memories of him and Matt flashed through his mind. A warmth followed them, the idea that he and Matt still held a connection calmed him.

Resonating in his mind was the image he once held of Matt. A friendly and charming guy, a lady’s man, who was fascinating to know. He had only wished Matt’s invincibility could have survived the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen.

***

Matthew Murdock had a visitor soon after his arrest. He was escorted through the gloomy and cold corridors of the prison, which almost felt like tunnels to him as he was pushed through. Anxiety clutched onto Matt as he approached it, having learnt that Kilgrave was now out free and his friends hadn’t yet shown any intention on visiting him.

Sat behind the glass of the meeting room was a man. He was quiet and stoic, showed very little interest in sitting where he was, with a growling face expressing the constant anger that bristled in his mind. He was blind too, like Matt, and the faint horrible stench the man carried was easily recognised.

As Matt sat down and stumbled in his reach fro the telephone, he could the breathing of the man louder than before. Hurriedly pushing the phone away from his ear, he waited to hear what the man wanted to say.

“I expected better from you, Matty.” Stated the man, holding the same tone of a façade of wisdom and condescending cynicism that he held all those years ago. “I came back for your help, but you decided to be a stupid asshole and get caught.”

“No, Stick. You don’t get to come back and criticise me. Do you even know what I went through?”

“Yes – of course I do. Some British asswipe told you to jump and you said how high.” Stick replied, grinning slightly at his own words. Although, before Matt could reply with the anger that Stick was beginning to manage to muster up, he tapped his fingernails against the table. “But when that asswipe escaped, he joined our war. You brought him into this war, and now the other side has the weapon we’ve been fearing this whole time.”

“Oh, the war? The War with who?” Matt asked, trying his best to hold in his frustrations against the snide comments he expected from Stick.

“The Japanese, mostly.”

“I don’t want you bringing your war to Hell’s Kitchen. Whatever you have against the Yaku-”

Stick laughed, interrupting Matt halfway through his conversation. A silence swiftly fell amongst them, as both shifted their heads nervously to investigate who could be listening in. Stick held the phone closer to his mouth when he knew it was safe, and quietly whispered in reply. “No, not them. You don’t even know what’s going on in your own backyard. It’s not the Yakuza, Matty. It’s the Hand – they’ve come to New York and Kilgrave has helped them bring the Black Sky into the city. The war is only going to get worse.”

“I can’t exactly do much about that though – I’m trapped in here.”

“Perhaps that’s for the best.” Stick promptly replied, though rather sombrely. “The threat they’ve brought into this will require more than just you, Matty… This weapon is something we’ve feared for decades. We don’t just need fighters like you – this city will need defenders."

Chapter Text

This universe continues to fascinate me, with its growing diversion from your own from the interaction of two unordinary people. However, when glimpsing into universes, you must always consider how one small change may just alter the course of a universe’s history.

We have seen the lives of those close to Matt Murdock change significantly, and the fallout has bled into the lives of Jessica Jones and those she knew. Yet, the unwinding and alternating only began to widen there - for this universe, the one you are observing with me, is only about to change further as the year changes to that of 2016.

Luke Cage’s story was intertwined with that of Jessica Jones. A framed man who escaped prison when he acquired powers of strength and practical invincibility. He married a psychiatrist, Reva, though she met her demise when Jessica Jones was forced to kill her under Kilgrave’s orders. The ordeal weighed on them both, and while Jones felt never-ending guilt, Cage felt anger and rage though was blind to who had truly caused the death of his wife.

In your universe, this connection is what brought them together, and forged the basis of their relationship. Built out of mutual powers, a desire to live a simple life, and guilt and rage over Reva’s death. However, their connection no longer lasts in this universe.

Although, despite that absence, the universe still feels obligated to repair itself. Pull the strings to unite plot threads that it knows too well. Leading to a PI finding a bartender, though in a different circumstance.

***

“Foggy, listen, I really wish I could help, but I can’t. I’m working at the moment.” Karen Page retorted, her hands wrapped in warm gloves and clutched onto a camera. Lodged between her pressed down head and upright shoulder was her phone, which blurted out with Foggy Nelson’s voice – who was requesting her presence at another hearing for Matt Murdock.

She, however, was much too busy perched upon a fire escape. Warmly encased in a thick coat, and the lens of her camera positioned opposite the street, she waited until she caught Luke Cage and a lustrous woman laughing as they proceeded indoors. Karen clasped down on the camera, before an unexpected flash of light caught her off guard.

As the whole street was exposed to the sudden flash of white light, Karen let out a terrified gasp. Her phone dropped to the metal grated floor and let out a sudden clanging noise. She hid herself under the thick coat, shrouded under a shadow to prevent her model from catching sight of her.

“That couldn’t have been lightning.” Uttered the voice of a woman, as she teased Luke to continue through indoors. He had paused for a moment, his eyes scanning the row of windows all of which were darkened or dimly lit by lights trapped behind curtains.

Karen had frozen, not wanting to move from underneath the coat in case she risked revealing herself. She hoped and prayed she’d successfully hidden herself until her ears caught the sound of a door slamming and she quickly glanced back down. Cautiously peering out from the coat, she noticed that Luke had proceeded indoors, giving her the chance to both switch off the flash and pick up her phone.

Turning off the flash, she proceeded to catch a few more photos of Luke and the woman kissing by the window, before he shut the curtains behind them. Her joyous exclamation almost beckoned throughout the street, at least letting Karen know she was done here.

“Matt needs to be somewhere safe until we catch Kilgrave.”

“Have you even gone to visit him in there? He’s made friends with these two brothers and another guy – threatened by the big boss of the place. I’m worried that one more nutjob thrown into that place is going to send him over the edge.” Foggy’s voice rang over the phone, whilst a collective crowding chatter sat in the background. Karen frowned, sifting through the incriminating photos with a slight grin across her face – relieved slightly to have successfully got the job completed. “Are you even listening?”

“Yes, Foggy. I am. And I wish there was something we could do – but for as long as Jessica and Kilgrave are out there, Matt has no certainty everything is going to be okay. Same with me and Union Allied – but the difference between Matt and I? I don’t put on a mask and body armour and beat up criminals to vent my fear and anger.”

“No. You just sit on fire escapes and pretend to be Jessica Jones so that her seat is nice and warm, on the off-chance she’s coming back.” Foggy raised his voice as he held the phone closer to his mouth, shiftily trying to avoid attracting too much attention as he escaped the crowd briefly. Karen sat in silence, unsure how to even respond to Foggy’s remark. “Look, I have to go. Just try and make it next time – or even just visit Matt.”

Without even giving Karen the chance to say goodbye, the phone call had ended. Karen dropped her phone into her pocket and stared down at Luke’s shut window with despair. She considered Foggy’s words, since there was truth in the fact she was pretending to be Jessica. Hoping her troubles and fears as Karen Page would dissipate as she took on Jessica’s mantle. Yet, it hadn’t quite worked as she had hoped.

Instead, she spent every night reading up about Wilson Fisk’s endeavours. Cycling through his false companies and misleading ventures, building a profile of Fisk’s business. She figured he was working with the Russians and the Chinese and the Japanese, all of whom sought various assets of his vastly growing empire.

As she sat in Jessica’s office, dimly lit so as to avoid costing too much on the energy bill, she stared at the union allied symbol for hours at a time. Recalling the events of her trauma so vividly – waking up in a pool of blood, next to a man she’d barely known. A nice man, with a wife and kids who were eventually coerced into accepting Fisk’s bribes.

Fisk was now invincible, built behind stacks of money which funded the police and the courts. It controlled the street crime and the organisations, all while the man himself paraded around with a loving woman clutched in his arms.

At least she could spend the other moments of the day as Jessica Jones. Somebody who took nobody's shit – who took on the grungy crap other PI’s wouldn’t. Who drank bourbon flippantly and was rude to her friends as a means to not get too emotionally attached to anybody – since her trauma had convinced her of the dangers of that.

She glanced into the glass of the cabinet and considered her reflection. Karen Page still stared back.

***

Some days had passed until Karen wandered into a relatively quiet bar. It was mostly quite grey, with the cold air chilling the windows slightly. The bar which sat at the centre of the room stood in contrast with a warm glow. The bar was clean, and only carried the smell of oak wood, without the usual alcohol-stained scent lingering. Bottles of liquor lined the wall behind the bar, whilst a man tended to it.

The man that Karen had learned was Luke Cage cleaned the bar profusely, ensuring there was no chance of a splatter of dirt ingraining itself in the bar. An elderly man sat by his side, head in a newspaper, though Luke paid him no attention besides a quiet request to let him move past.

Opening the doors to the bar attracted attention instantly, as a bell chimed over Karen’s head. Luke was alerted to her presence, and he paused and examined her face for a moment. After a moment, he smiled gently, returned behind the bar and dropped down the cloth on his lower side of the bar.

Her eyes met his smile, and the pair were unsure who would speak first. Luke noticed intuition in her eyes. An intention and purpose had led her here – not just the usual search for solace in the bottom of a glass, or the company of other drinking pals.

“Sorry,” Karen blurted out, nervously brushing a stray string of hair out of her eyes as she headed for the closest barstool. A fluster filled her face as she locked eyes with Luke, before retrieving a paper dossier and putting it down on the table. “Are you Luke Cage?”

Luke was cautious, his eyes shifted towards the old man engrossed in his newspaper. He suddenly turned stiff and shifty, before gesturing for Karen to wander to the other side of the bar. There was no doubt that Karen’s unexpected arrival and question had brought out a nervousness in his eyes as a clear discomfort controlled him.

“Who are you?” He asked quietly, his eyes monitoring hers as she pushed the dossier closer to him. He took the dossier, giving her a moment to speak as he sifted through it’s contents.

“I’m currently a P.I, taking on some work from a woman called Jessica Jones. Do you know her?”

“These are just photos of me… why do you have photos of me? Who hired you? What do you want?” Luke’s onslaught of questions ignored Karen’s explanation entirely, interrupting her as a sense of panic filled his tone. He remained quiet and stern, evidently still wanting to avoid kicking up a fuss.

“I think somebody hired Jessica to watch you – but nobody's come to pick up the case. I’ve continued to monitor you for a few months, and the only reason I can find is this woman. Gina.”

“What about her?” As Karen began to assure him, there was a flicker of relief written across his eyes. Though he ensured there was no guarantee he would expose the relief that wafted over him.

“She’s having an affair on her husband... with you,” Luke laughed and retorted as he began to turn around the bar and wander off. “A copy of her marriage certificate is in there.” Luke returned, slowly hulking over the bar as he searched through the dossier. He felt the paper cover rub against his fingers as he rifled through it, not wanting to believe what he was reading.

“Are these your only copies?” Karen nodded a response which Luke immediately met by sliding the file behind the desk. “I don’t like complications, and I don’t like being watched. I have my own shit that I don’t want to become public business.”

“I understand,” Karen nodded her head, looking up with almost desperation in her eyes. “But there’s something else – another reason.” Luke stared at her, apprehension in his eyes as he watched her lean in closer to him. He could feel his heart beginning to pound in his chest, watching as she leant in closer to continue what she was saying. Deciding to not say anything, in fear he’d further incriminate himself, Luke waited for her next words. “I know people like you… with powers.”

Luke froze as he heard her words. Her whispered tones, barely loud enough for him to hear it, had thrown his mind into a sudden frenzy. Paranoia seeped through his mind, now questioning what the woman wanted. Perhaps it was extortion, blackmail from a PI seemed reasonable. He stared at her with a façade of confusion, not wanting to make it obvious that his discomfort was growing.

“Jessica had powers too. Which was surprising, because she had the skinniest arms imaginable. And my friend… Matt. You might’ve heard of him – the masked man who Fisk is after.”

“Yeah… I’ve heard of him. Blind guy, heightened senses.” Luke’s voice was quiet and timid. He didn’t want to say anything further than that simple confirmation. He stared down cautiously, sceptically. Clearly, his discomfort was growing worse.

“Well, the Kilgrave guy – British, working with Matt? He’s kidnapped Jessica, and I could really do with your help…” Karen was quiet and uncertain, uncertain if revealing all the information that was escaping the tip of her tongue was even a good idea. Although, as she spoke, she could see good in Luke’s eyes. A kindness, which assured her that she could trust him. “You’re strong, right?”

“And what’s your power? Nosiness?” Luke’s defence broke out suddenly, as he stared down at her. His eye flickered down towards the dossier nervously for a moment, still holden a sternness in his eyes.

“I just want to help my friend. I’m worried about her – seriously worried.”

“My skin is impenetrable. But that Kilgrave? That fucker works on a disease. It doesn’t matter if I can’t be shot – the moment I’m near him, he’s defeated me already. So the answer is no – Ain’t no way I’m risking losing myself to a British shit like him.”

Karen frowned, understanding perfectly the predicament that her request put him in. Although, the desperation she felt was clear in her eyes. Glistening like a perfected diamond, her fear and terror were evident. And Luke knew that, as he stared at the woman and felt her eyes staring back at him.

But the pleading in her eyes wasn’t enough to pull Luke on her side. And that realisation struck a cord in Karen’s mind, as her eyes fixed on the man. The desperation became clearer as she leaned in once again, her voice so quiet it was just loud enough to be anything but a gush of air from her mouth.

“Carl Lucas, I really need your help.” With those words, she slipped a card across the bar into his hand and let out a quiet sigh. Luke froze once again, and didn’t utter a word as she headed for the door. Lodged beneath his fingers was a card, which besides something contact information and an address, were the words: Alias Investigations.

***

There was no doubting that Karen felt guilty in dredging up Luke’s history and using it to unnerve him however, as the night arrived and the man himself arrived at the doors of Alias Investigations, she felt relief that it had worked.

Luke’s first series of questions, as she let him through the glass door, unsurprisingly fixated on how she knew who he was – and what else she knew. Finding Luke’s history wasn’t exactly hard, especially after spending so much time trying to uncover the mysteries left by Wilson Fisk. In fact, uncovering Luke’s history was like a lunchtime hobby in comparison to finding the complicated and well-hidden crimes of Fisk.

Once Karen explained what she knew, she sat Luke down across the table, before retrieving a couple of paper files. They were neatly bound, each containing different cases and aspects of investigations. Named after who they investigated – Murdock, Jones and Fisk – the files detailed every piece of information she needed to hand over to Luke.

“Sweet Christmas,” Luke remarked, as he picked up the first file, which featured a black and white photo of Wilson Fisk, with his name neatly written on. “I thought you needed help finding this Jessica woman. Why do I need these files too?”

“I’ll need your help taking down Wilson Fisk too – once we have Jessica obviously.”

“No. No way. Helping you find this Jessica is risky enough – but this? Too complicated, too much attention.” Karen sighed, knowing that throwing that offer out there was pushing her luck already. Luke dropped the file down on the desk and shook his head, turning back eventually to notice a doe-eyed Karen rifling through the files. It didn’t take too much effort to notice the strain and pressure she was under. The anxiety that raced through her eyes was noticeable from a mile away. “I’ll consider helping with the Fisk stuff, if you help me.”

“Name it!” Karen’s eyes lit up as she stared back up to Luke, now with a flickering of hope beginning to burn in her eyes.

“My wife, Reva. She was killed in a bus accident – but something about the whole thing stinks to me. I want to find out who caused it.”

“Consider it done.” Almost instantly, Karen’s voice blurted out, smiling as her eyes met with his. “Give me the details and I’ll get to the bottom of it.”

Luke proceeded to give the details, a recollection of events which had tormented him greatly, which was soon followed by a quietness that settled between them. It was an uncomfortable and sad silence, as Luke remembered the woman he loved so dearly all whilst grief heavily weighed down on his chest.

Karen passed over a glass of bourbon to fill the silence, giving Luke something else to dwell on instead. He promptly swigged the glass down, feeling it burn his throat as it slithered down. He winced slightly, before fixing his attention on Karen.

“So why are you here? Taking on this Jessica’s crap?”

Luke could see that the life of a PI wasn’t where she’d expected to be. Perhaps a secretary – she had the air of a resourceful and determined woman. Her eyes were kind too and didn’t quite contain the utter ruthlessness needed for the life as a PI. Though, Luke reminded himself that wasn’t exactly true, considering he was sat here as she’d revealed she’d investigated the man’s life.

“She saved me, and I owe her for that. Everybody else is content with waiting until she’s back, but I’m not. That asshole isn’t bringing her back, and the sooner people realise that – and realise we have to find him, the better.” There was a tremor in Karen’s hand as she placed down her glass, as the sheer thought of Kilgrave’s face awoke a terror that laid dormant in her mind.

“Well, then, she’s lucky. There's only a few people who have looked out for me in this world like that. And besides Pops, I don’t think there’d be anyone who would go looking for me. Let alone make sure everything was kept well for when I returned.” Luke smiled at her, with a sort of sincerity that was tainted by a gleam of a smile. Karen couldn’t quite tell if the tainted part was flirting, but she felt comforted all the same by the notion – though not entirely interested in Luke.

Between them was a silence once again, as they both contemplated who in their lives would go looking for them. But neither had an answer – which in of itself was rather a depressing thought to dwell on.

“Well,” Karen remarked, pouring them both another glass, while a comforting smile etched across her face. “Let’s be honest, there’s no way you’re going missing. Not with your super strength and impenetrable skin.”

“People would find a way,” Luke commented grimly, taking the glass of bourbon and taking a sip. Although he didn’t elaborate, Karen could see clearly that his life had led to pessimism and distrust in people. His eyes were shifty, and his voice low.

“Then why not join the Avengers or something? I mean, they have that guy with the bow and that secret spy one? You’d be like – a cooler Captain America.” Luke laughed at that idea, watching as Karen flippantly thought off the top of her head. He could see that it was nice for her to let loose – to chuckle to herself for a moment, as she saw him laugh.

“The Avengers ain’t got nothing I want.”

Karen smirked as she glanced across the table. “Enough money to make you live comfortably?” She suggested, watching as Luke quickly dismissed the idea with a shake of his head.

“Not with all the attention that comes out of being one of them. I mean, we know the personal details of all of them now-”

“Only the ones who put their lives on show. I don’t know anything about Hawkeye or Black Widow or Hulk. Stark and Rogers though? Now they made themselves icons.”

Luke shook his head, briefly in disagreement, though promptly putting the idea to rest as he stared back at her. “That’s another thing – why do they all have stupid names? They’d try and call me ‘Power Man’ if they signed me up or some shit.” He laughed at the very idea, not entirely considering it out of the realm of possibility.

“I’m keeping that for when you become an Avenger.” She laughed, muttering the name to herself and chuckling at how funny it sounded to her. As her laughter quietened, she stared back across the table. Her eyes met with Luke’s, and she felt a comfort resonate in her chest, calmed by the fact that she would have his assistance. “Thank you – for agreeing to help.”

Chapter Text

Observing the multiverse brings you familiarity with certain events. The Battle of New York and the Blip are two centrepieces on universal scales that whole timelines pivot around – but those are tsunami’s to a timeline, in comparison to the ripples that can still be observed.

***

Some weeks had passed since Karen and Luke had formed an alliance, bringing their expertise and strengths to each of their goals. Karen hadn’t quite found a use for Luke’s impenetrable skin, though that didn’t quite deter her from diverting her attention to the death of Reva. The tragic accident had remained a rather covert mystery, though it hadn’t taken Karen long to sniff-out the cover up that had masqueraded the incident.

Asking around, a bit of flashing of cash and running errands had brought light to the lies. One bus driver under the influence of alcohol and a bus company willing to cast that fact into a realm of silence. With that information, Karen was certain she could get justice of Luke and Reva – that the parties responsible would be held accountable.

Though a dreading thought weighed on her shoulders as she considered that idea. Flashing in her mind were images of blood cascading around a bland room, the crimson of the blood bringing colour to the beige carpet and walls. The knife shattered against the ground as the corpse of a man she barely knew lay bloody before her.

Nobody had taken responsibility then. In fact, it had hardly tarnished the reputation of the men involved, as they now sat in their penthouses, with the next phase of their plans rolling out.

Karen’s spiral into the dreadful thoughts had been abruptly interrupted by a jittering of the door as it thrust open. The clattering of the glass within the frame of the door and the clangs of the door knob had thrown her eyes back towards the hallway, and although she felt a glimmer of hope gleam in her heart that Jessica had arrived, the bouncing blonde hair that swished around in erratic movement confirmed otherwise.

“Oh,” Karen spoke quietly, “Hi Trish.” She waved towards her, before wandering into the small and cramped kitchen. She swiped a sandwich from the counter and ushered herself back to the desk, before resting in the seat behind it. Trish had jolted from across the room and into the office, with an expression that Karen couldn’t quite make out. “Everything okay?”

“Kilgrave’s been spotted.” You may not consider those three words to be powerful, though the mere utterance had driven Trish into a pale flush and, upon hearing them, Karen felt her body convulse upwards as she jumped to her feet. Karen’s eagerness to know was found in a bumbling rant of questions, which Trish’s quiet voice quickly answered. “He was spotted last night in England… Isle of Wight? But nobody’s seen him since.”

“Did they see Jessica? We need to go!”

“Nobody’s seen Jessica at all, but Kilgrave’s smart. He’s travelled across the world without anybody even realising. I’ve booked a plane to London tonight, and then I’ll figure out my journey from there – but you have to stay here. Jess is my sister, and I need someone to stay behind and take care of this.” She gestured her hand around frantically at the array of papers which scattered the desk, before her eyes noticed the image of Reva. Freezing for a moment, her eyes scrutinised the face, trying to recall where she’d seen it before. “Wh- why are you investigating her? She’s dead.” There was an alert and guilty panic arising in Trish’s voice, almost a growing defensiveness as her eyes shot up towards Karen.

“I’m doing a favour for a friend. The driver was drunk and the bus company covered it up – what do you mean I can’t come? Jessica saved my life. I have to be there to help her.” As Karen grew more flustered by the sudden inability Trish had dropped upon her, she whipped a stray hair back behind her ear. “There’s this guy – Luke. He’s got impenetrable skin. If we take him th-”

“Kilgrave doesn’t need a gun to incapacitate him.”

“Trish, he was broken out of prison with the help of ninjas!”

“So it would be a really bad idea to piss him off.” Trish replied bluntly while her expression remained unchanged. “Look, I get that helping Jessica means a lot to you and I really appreciate it. Everything you’ve been doing, keeping this place afloat and all that is more than anyone would expect from you. And when we get Jessica back, which we will, you’ll have helped in more ways than if you were tagging along.”

“I can help you!” Karen insisted, fixed in place as her voice grew more frustrated with Trish’s rejection. Although, as she continued with determination, it had been made perfectly clear Trish wasn’t budging. Her eyes darted around the room panicked and frustrated, feeling even more limited as the assistance she wanted to provide wasn’t even considered.

Karen slumped back down in her seat, relieving a heavy and irritated sigh as she glanced back up towards Trish. Jumping around the array of papers, she retrieved an important file and flicked through it, before slamming it down on the table. A photograph of Reva, printed in black and white, stared up towards Trish.

“What do you know?” Karen asked, folding her arms as she saw the flush of pale pass over Trish. The photograph sat centre stage of the desk, holding a frozen moment of Reva’s life.

At first, Trish was hesitant. Something clearly teetered in her mind, and something sat on the edge of her tongue, but she didn’t say a word. Silence was followed by a series of quiet mutterings, until Trish’s eyes met with Karen’s. They were passive and yet demanding, as she waited with tolerance and patience to hear the answer.

“Kilgrave did it.” Just as Trish had expected, her reluctant revelation had brought an expression of confusion across Karen’s face, whose rapid comprehension silenced for a moment. “The night Jess got away from Kilgrave, he made her kill Reva. Jess, having strength like she’s the Hulk or something, killed her with a punch.”

“But I thought Reva was hit by a bus… there was a colli-”

“Kilgrave was hit by the bus when he chased after Jess. I don’t know how he survived it, but he made Jess kill Reva.” Karen glanced down at the file, realising the minor discrepancies now began to make sense. Although, with the revelation now sitting before her, she realised that the avenue she was heading down to investigate and prosecute had distanced itself from the truth.

Letting out a heavy sigh, she planted her head in her hands, her elbows resting on the desk and her eyes glaring down at a stained piece of wood. Racing through her mind were various thoughts, though truth be told she was still reeling from Trish’s adamant rejection of her joining in searching for Jessica.

With one revelation, the entire case she had worked to build had suddenly collapsed. Of course, the collision and cover-up were still admissible in court, but how could she justify her efforts to Luke if Reva was killed by Jessica? Even under Kilgrave’s influence, it would be undoubtedly difficult to observe Jessica with the same light.

“That’s why she’s been watching him…” Karen realised, running her hands through her hair as she glanced back towards Trish. “Jessica w-was waiting to find a way to tell him the truth.”

“She struggled when she got back. Really struggled – like your friend Matt. I always meant to tell her how proud I was off her.”

A pang of sadness flashed in Trish’s eyes as she sat on the edge of the desk. Her eyes fixed on the glass of the door as it reinvigorated that pride – realising how far Jessica had made it before Kilgrave snatched her out from her life. Karen threw her an empathetic look, understanding both the pain Jessica experienced and the concern Trish was feeling.

“We’ll get her back.” Karen smiled weakly as she wandered around the desk and sat beside Trish. “Soon enough she’ll be swigging down half a bottle of bourbon in that chair.” Though her words were delivered with confidence, neither of the pair were certain at all they were true. “Get to England – call me if you find anything, okay?” Karen interrupted the seeding qualms of doubt as she turned back to Trish wait a faint smile.

***

Trish had been wandering around for some time alone. The cold whip of the morning numbed her body as she pursued her investigation. Her journey to the Isle of Wight had been less than pleasurable, involving planes and cabs and trains and boats, all until leaving her stranded in the midst of a grey and uninviting coasted island in England.

She’d visited England a few times before, though her indulgences had only taken her so far as a little south of the River Thames, and her adventures barely left the City of London. This was as far as she had been on the small country bound by water, and she found herself shivering amongst the several wrapped layers. The salty air was bitter, and as she stumbled across an almost desolate caravan park, a daunting familiarity hit her.

Diving her hands, wrapped in woollen gloves, into her coat pockets, she retrieved a printed photograph. Holding it up, feeling the cold nip of the wind travel down her jumper, she recognised certain aspects of the park she’d found. The branding on the sides of the caravan, a red van sat in the distance – all that was missing was the devil in purple himself.

Trish was careful and cautious. Her eyes were alert, jumping around erratically at the smallest sign of movement. Shifting curtains, or gates swaying in the draughty wind. The notion Kilgrave was here unnerved her enough, let alone that it was hellishly desolate enough to be considered his hideout.

As her feet dragged through the gravel pathway, the pounding of her heart could almost be heard in her ears as the sound of blood pumping around her body was deafening. Her eyes fixed on the door, which was left slightly ajar and was slowly pushed open by the wind sweeping through the park. Anxiety and terror raced over her, as the daunting realisation passed through her that clasping the handle of the door could be the very last choice she’d make.

Nonetheless, she did so. Swinging the door open she jolted inside, finding a quiet mobile home. To her left was a round cushioned couch, which ran around the wall and was accompanied by a coffee table. A kitchen area stood to her right, though the surfaces were packed with test tubes and Bunsen burners. There was a foul smell from the other room, though she had no doubt it was a rotting smell.

Trish could see a splatter of blood down the narrow hall of the caravan, and she felt her body impulsively jump out through the door. She staggered down the stairs and felt her heart racing with fear, as she felt nothing but pure terror as to what could be in the other room. Though truthfully her one concern was whether or not it was Jessica. Not venturing inside to grasp an answer saved her from knowing if Jessica had fallen to that horrific fate, though the fear it could be confirmed riddled her with terror.

The only thing which prevented the swathe of anxiety to continue were the footsteps of a man behind her, who persevered through the stones. Her head swung around towards the man, her fists clenched as she jumped alert, before her eyes fell upon a tired and malnourished man. She jumped to check he was okay, though acting on instinct he pushed a note into her hand. The impulse set him free, as Trish took the note and stared up at him worried.

“What’s this for?” She asked, watching the man hobble away. His eyes were weary and his body quivering, as he wandered towards the caravan closest. Not looking back towards her, the man carried on inside and shut the door behind him, leaving Trish bewildered.

Look after mum and dad for me. Jessica and I are going on our honeymoon.

Now piss off.

- Kilgrave

Trish swung her head back around towards the caravan, hoping that the note was confirmation that Jessica was alive out there – now raising the issue of who had been killed. Bursting back inside, and rocking the caravan aside slightly as she hurried through, she grabbed the door handle and stared inside.

A bloodied mess of two elderly people sat inside. The brutal away had caused the splatter of blood to stain the walls and ceiling, as the man clasped onto an iron. It had been pulled out from the wall in the struggle, though their recent burn mark faces were evidence enough of what happened before any bludgeoning.

Trish felt herself on the verge of throwing up, and ushered herself out of the caravan.

Some relief passed over her in the confirmation that Jessica wasn’t dead in an English caravan, though the prospect that she was still out there unnerved her still.

***

“As angry as I am with you for putting yourself in danger, Trish, this whole ‘finding dead bodies’ thing is going to really push your popularity.” Sauntering around Trish’s living room, Dorothy Walker was gleaming with a smile. Scattered across the coffee table were several newspapers which headlined with Trish’s name, whilst letters addressed to her sent their best wishes.

“None of this is about me, mother.” Trish grumbled as she carried a bowl towards the couch and slumped down upon it, Dorothy staring towards her frustrated. “Jessica has been kidnapped, by an insane and evil bastard.”

“Are we sure he’s kidnapped her?” She commented, provoking an outraged expression to cross Trish’s face. “I’m just saying, he’s a very handsome man. Nice hair, nice jaw, beard. Nicely tailored suit. He hardly needs to kidnap someone, and neither of us know what sort of weird stuff she’s into.”

“Mother! Are you fucking kidding me? Kilgrave isn’t a suave guy who’s going to hook up with you if you give him enough attention. He’s a murderer. An abuser. A rapist. He’s pure evil! And he has Jessica. My sister.”

“Don’t you dare talk to me like that – I get it, okay. Kilgrave is bad. But I just want you to keep your mind open. Jessica has always been one to want attention. And a man with powers crazier than her-”

“Get out!” Trish screamed at the top of her lungs, as she plonked the bowl on the table and thrust her arm towards the door. Dorothy stared, befuddled by Trish’s sudden outrage. “I said get the fuck out!” She insisted, jumping to her feet and ushering her mother out of the door. “You’re the one that’s always wanted attention. And if you’re seriously going to blame Jessica here, then I don’t want anything to do with you.”

Without letting Dorothy say another word, Trish slammed the door. She seethed with rage as she headed towards a small intercom sat on the wall, only to press it and reveal live footage of the hall. She watched as Dorothy stood, outraged and annoyed, before heading towards the elevator.

***

Foggy wandered out of the courtroom, gleaming with a proud smile as his eyes met with Karen. Resonating in her eyes was a sense of gratitude that he’d managed to find them justice. A hefty fine had been levied against the bus company, whilst the bus driver who had been driving that night was stripped of his licence entirely.

A crowd followed out from behind Foggy, the clanging of leather shoes and heels slapping against the ground bursting from around him. Though quickly emerging from amongst that crowd was an eager and happy blonde woman, who clung to his arm as he reached Karen. Although Karen hadn’t yet met the woman, she was well aware of the loving entanglement with Marci.

“Foggy bear!” She declared, almost swinging on his arm with glee. “That was great. I mean, it was pretty cut and dry with the cover-up, but getting that evidence?”

“Well actually, a lot of that w-” Foggy’s attempt to hand the responsibility to Karen was cut short, as Marci promptly interjected.

“My bosses wanted to meet you, actually. Gathering that much evidence, and having a track record like yours? I’ll call, book an appointment and let you know – but I need to dash, Hogarth’s pulled me into her messy divorce.” Without letting a word in edgeways, Marci puckered a kiss on Foggy’s cheek and throw a polite wave to Karen, before jetting off down the corridor. There was a spring in her step, that or a flustered determination to reach somewhere else.

Foggy shook his head guiltily as he peered back to Karen, who’s face was now filled with staunch amusement at the situation. “I’m sorry – I’ll tell her it was you who found the evidence. Just sometimes I can’t seem to finish m-”

“Oh, no, no.” Karen laughed as she interrupted him, dismissive of his guilty correction. “Thank you, for doing this.” She glanced sympathetically towards Foggy. Her amusement fading into seriousness as she rested her hand on his shoulder as she expressed her gratitude.

“Technically, we got justice for Kilgrave – but I’ll overlook that bit, because a cover-up like this we can’t just ignore.” He sighed as he turned back around to the courtroom. “Corruption like this is small, but I just can’t help but think of Fisk and everything he’s doing to this city. I mean, have you heard about the Irish are getting annoyed? Nobody knows where the Japanese went after Kilgrave escaped. Your reporter friend, Ben Urich? He’s retired to help his wife. The city’s on edge and I can’t even imagine what’s coming.”

“Get that job with Marci and you’ll have your foot in the door.”

“But it’s not the same.” Foggy sighed, spotting a free pair of seats on a bench across the hall. With a gesture for Karen to follow, he quickly approached in and slumped down, slapping the bag of papers down upon his lap. “I should be with Matt in there. He knows all the tricks of the trade – he could listen to their heartbeats or smell their sweat if they’re lying and really… press on that. He was always the better one.”

“Hey,” Karen jumped to glare at him. “You and Matt were equals. Your name was on the top of that billing and you’re still being offered places for work. So what if Matt has super-senses and you don’t?”

“I- I just wish I had known sooner. I could’ve helped Matt – been his man in the chair.” Karen laughed at that idea, prompting a small twinge of a smile at the edges of Foggy’s lips. “What? I could do that.”

“I’m sure you could be his man in the chair, with your computer that belongs to two decades ago and an internet router that only works if you beat it to a pulp.”

“I’ve upgraded since, actually, my computer only belongs to the last decade, and the internet router only needs a little whack every few hours.” Foggy laughed. A natural laugh that he hadn’t quite felt for some time.

He glanced towards Karen, whose face encapsulated the joy he felt those few days of starting up Nelson and Murdock. A gut-feeling of sadness and dread swarmed his mind, though his face clung onto a façade of happiness. “I should take the job.” Foggy muttered, letting out a deep sigh as he watched the crowd disperse.

Karen turned to him, holding a smile despite it’s weakness. “Once Matt is out, we’ll decide what that future looks like. But for now, you deserve it.”

“It’s just… everything I’ve done is with the help of other people. I’m where I am today because of Matt – and I’ve only been able to win this case because of you. I can’t see how I deserve it, when it’s not been because of me.” He couldn’t help but recall the days and nights he and Matt had spent together, parties and study sessions. The laughing and crying and cheering and general drunkenness. A pang of nostalgia burned in his mind, before he glanced back to Karen, who smiled with sincerity.

“You’re a brilliant lawyer, Foggy. Do you understand? You’re not dependent on Matt – at all. And he’s not dependent on you, so stop. Focus on yourself – your future. Focus on Marci, and this big fancy lawyer company. Fisk is evicting people and setting up works to make an empire in Hell’s Kitchen, and without the only vigilante in this city willing to help, then we’re relying on people like you. Good hearted and willing to help anybody.”

Foggy was appreciative of Karen’s words, even if he was entirely confident in them. They sat together quietly for a moment, comforted by the quietness of the courthouse. The distance clacking of feet, and people passing through with files clutched in their hands. For Foggy, it strangely felt like home, while Karen was reassured of the idea of justice.

“You helped me,” She grabbed his hand and smiled with reassurance. “And you’ll help other people.”

Foggy found himself comforted by Karen’s words, though any words conjured in his mind to address her were thwarted by the emergence of a man wandering down the corridor. Donning a black hoodie and a towering stature, Luke Cage approached the pair from the long and quiet corridor. Foggy could tell the man was headed for them, and peered towards Karen, confused as to who he was.

After a few moments of anticipation, Foggy jumped to his feet and stared up towards Luke, his neck almost craning back as his eyes engulfed his stance.

“Mr Cage – I’m so sorry for your loss, but I hope that finding justice has helped you today.”

“We all know what kind of justice needs to be found. Kilgrave had Reva killed, not some drunk bus driver.” Luke was promptly dismissive, unapologetically frustrated as his eyes stared down at Foggy. “Which is why I’ve come to see you – either of you seen the news?” Karen and Foggy peered to one another confused, watching as Luke pulled out his phone from his pocket.

Handing it over to the pair cautiously, he left them for a moment as they watched a news clip. He slowly wandered towards the courtroom, staring inside with some hope that he’d be inside there one day, giving some damning evidence against Kilgrave – if he managed not to beat the cockroach to a pulp. An essence of Reva burned in his heart as he considered how proud she would be of him, for controlling the untampered rage he felt in the wake of her death.

“Trish Walker, former star of hit Children’s TV Show ‘It’s Patsy’, and current radio host, called police upon finding the scene. It is believed the victims were the parents of the enhanced-powered Kilgrave, with the brutal attack suggesting it was Kilgrave’s commands. Police are saying the crime scene was a make-shift laboratory, and only marks the further concerns we have of this dangerous assailant. Wilson Fisk, who was attacked by Kilgrave and the vigilante Matt Murdock last year commented-”

“Albert and Louise… he killed them?” Foggy threw his head up towards Luke, his hair flopping in the way as he did so.

“And he still has Jessica…” Karen murmured, unsure whether she felt some relief Jessica was safe out there, or whether a panicking dread was lurking over her shoulder. “I need to go talk to Trish. Foggy, thank you. Luke, go home – home-home. Tell her family about this – like the man you mentioned, Pops. Bring them some comfort and closure.”

Chapter Text

Luke Cage’s return to Harlem, with the news that the bus driver and bus company had found consequences for his drunken driving the night Reeva died, brought comfort to her family. Luke, too, had discovered some comfort in the notion of justice.

Though the horrid acts of Kilgrave still plagued his mind, and the news and scandal which Trish had found herself promptly dissipated.

***

Perhaps, it was the work of Trish’s Mother, who had commodified herself for any means which give her daughter the fame and glory she envied. The men, the drinks, the drugs – anything that could ensure her Patsy was safe from the harbingers of the media. Either that or the world had lost interest. Kilgrave and the threat he posed was no longer a cause for concern, as his movement to a remote island in the British Isles distanced the danger.

Nevertheless, Luke was still determined to find him. He’d text Karen relentlessly, tried to contact her and discuss the situation with her, though Karen’s own pursuit of a Personal Investigation had led her to an isolated life for the following month.

Only after some time of relentless barrages of texts and phone calls, Luke was able to arrange a time and a place for them to meet. Karen seemed fixated on a specific date, time and place: Central Park, 4^th April.

It was peculiar, to say the least, that Karen had chosen this date with specificity. The park was somewhat busy, as the morning sunlight shifted above to indicate the growing presence of midday. Children ran around excitedly, a carousel playing it’s joyful music rang in the distance, while rows of people sunbathing or going about their lives, or generally just sitting down in the shade.

Luke waited for Karen near where she had told him, specifically in sight of the carousel. As he waited for her, the morning chill mixing with the arm spring glow of the sun, Luke watched as a family set up a picnic nearby. His eyes had ignored the shady characters lurking around, glancing in his direction with an unsettling fixture on the location.

The family that set up comprised of a mother and her husband, with a young boy and girl who eagerly jumped around and laughed whilst their parents laid down a blanket. It looked to be a serene scene. Tranquil, and the man’s eyes were fixed on his wife, who he found to be beautiful in every regard.

Luke felt a slither of jealousy as he watched the man caress her cheek and smile. Flashing in his mind were images of Reeva, and the sight of a man in as much love with a woman as he was with Reeva led him to grieve the feeling. For a moment, he imagined the day he would have children with her too – the day he could climb trees and laugh with Reeva and the kids they had.

But that day never came.

“Luke, I am so, so sorry!” Karen rushed towards him, her voice attracting the attention of the park. Various faces, shadily hooded, glanced in their direction for a moment, clearly on edge before they shifted their attention. The man, who had set up a picnic nearby, who looked weathered by conflict, peered over. His eyes met with Karen’s gaze for a moment, and they felt a sense of familiarity as if they knew each other in another life. Karen jolted a cup towards him, warming the palm of his hand as he took it. “You like coffee, right?” She wondered, smiling nervously and guiltily.

Luke grinned, keeping a thought to himself as he nodded his head. “I appreciate you finally deciding to come out of that office and speak to me, but is there any reason you chose this place in particular?” He was quiet as he spoke to Karen, and stood still for a moment as he raised his eyebrow towards her. Karen sighed gently, feeling guilt pass over her as she felt reluctant to admit the exact truth.

“Kilgrave was stalking Jessica, by feeding her neighbour's drug addiction. It’s been really difficult helping him get clean, but I suppose without Kilgrave in his mind, he’s had an easier recovery. I’ve been monitoring the deals that have been going on, and the NYPD have reason to believe they’re going to catch a big trade happening here.”

Luke stared down at her, now with a flicker of agitation in his eyes. “Karen, last thing I want with my powers, is to be found in the middle of a drug deal.” He spoke bluntly as he whispered, beginning to walk away, towards the carousel as to avoid the attention this specific spot would soon attract.

“Please, Luke, just listen. We can talk about Kilgrave properly after this, but-” She leant in towards him, grabbing his arm to restrain him from wandering further. “The NYPD doesn’t want to seal this place off. These innocent people are in danger if things go south.”

With a brief glance around, Luke caught sight of the loving couple and their kids climbing in the tree. Another man dusted himself off as he got up from the floor, whilst a couple wandered past laughing with one another.

As he began to glance around at the civilians who could be caught in a dreadful crossfire any moment now, his attention was drawn towards two of the shady men conversing with one another. They both looked angry, cautious... tense. Luke watched from the corner of his eyes as they struck their hands into her trousers.

“Well, what have you found out about him?” Luke was blunt, and serious, cautiously glancing around to observe the shady men.

“Nothing really,” She pushed away a few strands of hair, as she sighed with frustration. “He’s more powerful, but he’s not demonstrating that power. Like, at all. There have been no sightings, no records – nothing even strange that might seem like it was him. He’s vanished.”

“The same for your friend, Jessica, too I assume?”

“For now. Interpol have been contacted, but I doubt that’ll help at all honestl-” Almost as though the world froze for a moment, Luke pushed Karen to the ground. He darted towards the tree, which the kids began to climb down from. Slamming his feet down against the ground, imprinting the soil with the sole design of his shoes, Luke raced towards the tree. He hunched over the kids, as a barrage of metallic Bullets ripped through the air.

Their mother screamed as a tornado of Bullets ripped above them. A gang war unleashed itself in the park, and the onslaught of bullets tore through the air at each side. Karen pulled down the leg of the mother, dragging her to the floor and preventing one of the coiling ammunitions from piercing her. Both of the parents watched in terror, the man let out a bloodcurdling scream, as he tried to push forward but his wife kept him down.

The gunfire continued to blaze, and beyond all expectation, Luke appeared unphased by the gunfire. His hoodie was set ablaze with bullet holes, though the metal tips of ammunition pinged off his skin. Hunched over, encapsulating the kids within his arms as to protect them with his impenetrable skin, Luke began to shuffle away. He ensured the kids were safe and hidden from the gunfire, before marching towards one of the gunmen.

Luke’s invincibility was quickly noticed, as the targets of the fire promptly fired. Ringing around them, the guns pierced the air with bullets, all of which leapt off from Luke’s skin as though they pinging elastic bands.

The gunman first on Luke’s radar stared up towards him startled, as he noticed the hundreds of holes in his shirt, the sheer absence of wounds. Holding him by his collar, and rising him above his head, Luke’s face filled with a seething rage. He gritted his teeth as he tossed the man towards the next gunman, knocking him over as though he’d achieved himself a spare.

Luke stomped towards the couple, and hunched over them with a serious and stern glint in his eyes.

“Your kids are safe over there, don’t worry.” He assured them, patting them on the shoulder before he headed towards the next group of gunmen. Ripping the metal railing that line the pathway from the ground, he flung it towards one of the furthest, whilst he took out another two with a swift blow to their heads.

Peering back towards Karen and the couple, he nodded they should be safe, and turned back to find and rid of the final remaining gunmen. As he stormed across the green, his eyes caught sight of a few bystanders, who stood terrified by intrigued, clutching onto phones as they recorded the unshootable man rampage through the attempted massacre. Although he had no intention of being a star of the event, he felt a duty to protect everybody else who wasn’t quite blessed with the strength his skin had.

In throwing his body into a larger range, he managed to protect various passer-bys who would be caught in the fire. He ushered them to safety, before focusing his attention back on the mindless goons. The air rang and echoed with screams and bullets. They became flat metal shards as they dropped against Luke’s feet, whose towering body had saved the green from a horrid shade of blood red.

The swarming bullets ripping through the air gradually ceased, as each of the gunmen fell to Luke’s strikes. Eventually, the firing halted. Scattered around, the gunmen lay on the floor in agonising pain, all of whom had failed whatever task they had been given. People approached the green where they stood, cheering for Luke as they clasped onto their phones.

Sirens screamed in the distance, their red and blue glows filling the streets. Police darted through, armoured, and prepared for any more gunfire, though they quickly found the scene indescribable. The whole array seemed impossible, as stood in the centre of the conflict and the cheering crowd, amongst the gathered gunmen and fractured guns, were a display of bullets. Their golden-bronze shimmer littered the ground, while their cartridges filled the ground.

The police were swift to question Luke, as others carried the criminals away from the scene. Karen tried to pull him away, though Luke merely smiled at her. “Don’t worry. We’ll talk later.” There was some part of Luke that felt relieved that his presence had saved the lives of so many people. People congratulated and thanked him, though he was swift in gesturing away the thanks.

Pushing past the police and through the crowds, the couple and kids stared up towards him in awe. “I don’t know what you did, but thank you – thank you so much.” The woman wrapped her arms around her kids, recovering from the pure terror that had struck her moments prior.

“I’ve seen some shit out there, but what you just did there – you’re a goddamn hero. I don’t know what I would’ve done if you wer-” The air was disturbed by a sudden beckoning sound, it was high-pitched and rung in the ears of everybody. It was a gunshot, from a pistol stashed away in one of the gunmen’s trousers. The bullet tore through the air, swirling as it hurtled towards it’s target.

“Frank! No!” Screamed the woman, watching as the man jolted forward. He staggered to the floor, caught by Luke, whose head frantically peered around and sought out for the

Jolting forward, the man fell into Luke, who was prompt in catching him and holding him up. Agony tore through his shoulder as he collapsed to the floor, whilst blood drenched Luke’s hands and hoodie.

Karen raced over, leading a charge of paramedics who’d been called to the scene.

Frank, the man whose shoulder ripped with torturous pain grunted as he let out heavy and deep breaths. “Fuck! Fuck, fuck.” He expelled, placing his hand on his bloodied shoulder. “Maria get the kids out of here. Now. Fuck!” His wife, whose trembling hands clutched onto the two kids, kissed him on the forehead before fleeing his sight. His kids screamed and cried in terror, much more in a state of panic than they had been amongst the shooting moments prior.

“You’ll be alright. Don’t worry. Frank, was it? I’m Luke.”

“Frank Castle - I’m supposed to be off fucking tour, man. This shit can’t be real.”

“You’re a solider? I used to be a cop – men like you, I respect entirely. But you’ll be fine. Bullet to the shoulders’ gotta be a normal day’s work, huh?” There was some humour mixed with a modicum of respect in Luke’s voice, as he attempted to reassure the bleeding veteran in his arms.

“That’s the point, man. It’s not supposed to be the same here. Drugs and guns and shit is meant to be out there – not round my kids!” Frank yelled, trying his best to distract himself from the surges of agony that pulsated through his shoulder. The paramedics shushed him, trying to pick him up carefully to lay on a bed. “Luke – you’re strong as shit. I’m trusting men like you to put this shit right.” Just as there was in Luke’s voice, Frank’s echoed with a respect only found between two men who shared a sense of comradeship.

Luke nodded his head, watching as the man was wheeled away. His wife stood shocked and trembling, her kids burrowed into her arms. Streaming down her face were tears, as she raced towards the nearest taxi to whizz them across towards the nearest hospital.

Standing alone, stoic almost as the chaos subdued and the police attended to other matters, Luke began to wander off. His clothes were ripped with bullet holes, but only his sleeves were stained with the blood of the soldier he’d caught.

Although he kept a brave and heroic face throughout the crossfire and its aftermath, Luke felt a pang of fear resonating in his heart. There was relief that he saved Frank from the tormenting grief he’d come adjusted to, though the accompanying jealousy was overwhelming him with guilt.

‘If only somebody had been there to save Reeva.’ Was all he could consider, as he marched through the streets. His mind dwelling on her face now, and imagining what it would have looked like in those final moments.

What soothed that guilt, however, was the realisation that a woman with his strength and a man with the powers of a devil had led to Reeva’s death. He may have well saved Frank’s family from bloodshed, but people with his abilities had caused his grief. In some capacity, it was a blessing and a curse. The bloodshed almost weighed up as an equal balance of fatalities and acts of heroism.

***

Written across Pops’ face was a proud smile. It was smug too, with all the tells of an “I told you so” line sooner or later. Luke was distant as he wandered through the shop, his gaze not meeting Pope’ as he headed towards the back.

“Luke, there’s no need for me to ask where you’ve been, is there?” Pops wondered, grabbing the remote for a small box TV cooped up in the corner of the ceiling. Raising the volume, Pops drew attention to a news report about the mysterious unkillable man who saved lives at Central Park. The footage was shoddy, but it depicted Luke rescuing the family and bystanders from the onslaught of fire.

“Pops, I really don-”

“You saved people today. And I respect your decision to remain anonymous- in fact, I think it’s more honourable. But you got a sour face for a hero.” Pops let out a laugh – a chuckle so infectious it brought a small smirk to Luke’s face too. “Reeva would be proud.” He paused, sincerity in his eyes as he wandered across the room, clutching onto the wooden handle of a broom. “I’m proud.”

Before any more could be said, the bell above the entrance door chimed. The slapping of heels against the vinyl flooring sounded filled the room, drawing the pair's attention to the woman who entered.

Karen peered across the room sheepishly, her eyes meeting with Luke’s, before glancing towards Pops. The older man raised his eyebrow, nodding his head to greet the woman and dropping the broom's handle into Luke’s arms. He wandered through to the back, chuckling to himself as a thought passed through his mind.

“I shouldn’t have done that to you, I’m sorry.” Karen was quick to her apology, blurting it out as soon as they found themselves alone.

“No, you shouldn’t have.” Luke was stern as he watched her intently. Resonating in her eyes was remorse and guilt, though there was a glimmer of admiration for Luke in the twinge of a growing smile.

“You saved a lot of people today, though. I know it’s not the same as Kilgrave, but stopping those people – it was the right thing to do.”

“My face is out there, now, Karen. I told you, I wanted to keep myself to myself. People like me, with powers, we’re dangerous when we’re known. Just look at the green monster that destroyed half of Harlem only a couple years ago. Give it time and we’ll be declaring Captain America a threat to national security or something.”

“I know- I know. But if you weren’t there today, imagine who would’ve been hit in the crossfire. I couldn’t bear that risk on my conscious willingly. Could you? Like seriously consider knowing people could get hurt and just not doing anything to stop it.”

“I said I would help you find your friend, Karen. I never said I wanted to play superhero.” Luke glared at her, as he set off across the room and began sweeping away clumps of hair and dirt that littered the ground. Focusing his attention on the ground for a moment, he felt a lash of fury jolt his head up towards her. “You know what your problem is, Karen. You don’t see what your own powers are! You could save lives yourself, but instead, you’re pretending to be some woman you met for a few hours a couple months ago. You could make a great detective or reporter – actually make a change.”

Karen glanced over guiltily, stunned and speechless as she considered his sudden and abrupt exclamation. Her eyes fixed on him as he wandered around the room, resuming his work as if he hadn’t just returned from saving people from a storm of bullets.

“I will, but only when everything is back to normal!”

“Let me ask you something,” Luke paused, leaned on the broom with a slither of his strength as to not break it. “Since when was anything normal for you. ‘Cos, for me, nothing's been normal for years. If you think normal is a place we can return, then good on you. But you’re kidding yourself if you think that’s even likely.” Shaking his head, Luke continued to sweep away the dirt that littered the floor.

As silence resonated between the pair, guilt and tension rising as they considered what to say next, they heard the chiming of the bell ring once again. Their heads swivelled around, watching as a slim brunette woman wandered in. She wore a dark green coat and a jumper beneath, whilst dangling around her neck was her badge.

She glanced around with a gentle smile, her eyes doe-eyed as she noticed the agitation resting between the pair.

“Hi, I’m uh- Detective O’Reilly. 29^th Precinct… is this a bad time?” She spoke timidly, as her eyes darted between Karen and Luke, which lingered on Karen with cautious sincerity and reassurance. With a gentle sigh, and re-collection of her emotions, Karen nodded her head towards the Detective. “Both of you were in Central Park, right?”

“I’ve already said what I needed to the co-” Luke’s dismissive nature was cut short, as the detective shook her head.

“I know what happened. Drug deal gone wrong, the Mexicans and the Irish began shooting. We had undercover cops on it. Drugs busts in this city is fodder for us. What I’m interested in, is how you knew about it?”

“Until they pulled out their guns, I didn’t have a clue.” Luke was a convincing liar, though Karen’s face was the glaring evidence that his words weren’t exactly true.

“My sources tipped me off about it – I’m a Private Investigator, looking into the disappearance of Jessica Jones.” The tone in Karen’s voice piqued that of a question, as she clung onto the hope that somebody somewhere would know something that was of use to her efforts of finding Jessica.

The detective nodded her head, smiling weakly, as she glanced between the pair. “So, you find out about a drug deal going on between two major players in the city and decided to tag along with Mr Muscle here? Who, I’m supposed to believe, only just found out about his powers?”

“What can I say? I’ve not often tried shooting myself.” A chuckle escaped Luke as he shrugged his shoulders, setting off towards her as he rested the broom in the corner of the room. The detective glanced up towards the screen, watching as it played another reel of footage of the gunfight.

“You seemed confident enough to protect the Castles’ kids.” She stated, ushering a newfound confidence as she nodded her head towards the TV. It flashed to a shot of Luke hunching over the kids, a still which depicted him like a godly hero, protecting the innocents from the blaze of gunfire.

“What’s your angle here?” Karen interjected, attracting the attention of the room. “That we wanted to cash in on the deal, or we sought to protect the kids your people put in danger by not clearing out the place?”

“We?” The detective smirked, with an eyebrow raised. “I was interested in understanding why and how a powered man conveniently happens to be in the centre of a drug deal gone wrong. But now you’re suggesting you interfered with a police investigation.” Uttered the detective, met with a prompt and alert agitated Karen to stare angrily across the room.

“Look,” Luke spoke out loud, diffusing the tension as he lured the attention his way. “I don’t want no beef in here. I didn’t know about the drug deal until I was there, but I protected the kids because I know what it’s like to lose somebody, and those kids were more innocent than anybody there. If you have a problem with that, I’d rather you come down to my bar in Hells Kitchen instead of Pops’ barbers.” Seizing the moment, Luke dispersed the women’s frustrations, and his reasonable voice settled the rage between them,

“I’ll come by – people with powers like you can do some good, I’m on your side. My name's Brigid, by the way.”

***

Rushed through the hospital, Frank Castle felt nothing but a burning agony in the back of his shoulder. Although he’d fought through worse, a gunshot wound still hurt like hell. The pierced wound felt warm and wet, as blood pulsed out of the sore flesh and stained the hospital bed he found himself carried through the corridors on.

Flashes of white light were the last things he saw, until his mind shut itself into a sleep. Despite the raging pain digging through his body, the unconscious state he was dragged into brought him some calm. Except, as the calming bright flashes of Central Park, with his wife and kids and best friend Billy Russo, surged through his mind, they quickly turned grim.

“I love you.” His wife smiled as she spoke gently, her words silent but their meaning strong in his mind. Peace and tranquillity swirled in his mind, likely a dose of the anaesthetic they pumped into his body as they retrieved the coiling bullet from his shoulder blade.

The pain of the operation was numb to him, though it’s distorted and unnatural nature took form in his dream. Whilst his kids laughed and played with him, and Billy Russo stood in the corner of his eyes with a gleaming smug smile, dark hooded figures began to gather around them.

They were distant figures, though as the anaesthetic wore off and he drew closer to consciousness, Frank noticed they were armed. He found himself restrained to the ground, whilst the gunmen retrieved their guns and held them towards his family.

Letting out a horrid cry as his ears seemingly rang with the beckoning blasts of bullets fired, Frank jolted upwards. His eyes darted around the quiet room, falling upon his wife and kids, whilst a nurse was quick to glance towards him.

“Everything’s okay, Frank. You took a bullet to your shoulder, but you’ll recover.” Frank cared little for his own health at that present moment, as he reached his hands towards his wife’s, smiling gently at his son and daughter.

“Daddy… is this what happens when you go away?” Asked the young girl, stunning Frank as he contemplated how to reply. His wife shushed her, trying to silence the question, though Frank turned his head towards the nurse.

“Could we have a minute?”

“Course, I’ll be just outside if you need me.” She smiled gently, whilst Frank leant in to observe her name badge. He nodded his head in thanks as she wandered out, whilst the shut door gave room for the silence his daughters’ question had brought about, to be promptly squandered.

As Frank seized the moment of peace, he glanced out through the window of the room, watching as Claire Temple called in a stack of paperwork. She meant very little to him, though he felt a growing appreciation as she wandered away.

***

Punishment. Frank Castle was born from it, and would seek it. On the 4^th April, 2015, a massacre would unleash itself in Central Park. At least, that is the story which led to the creation of The Punisher.

In your universe, this day would pave the way for a new enemy to Daredevil. A new ally for Karen Page. And a new threat to those deemed criminal scum.

However, the universe we are observing – it is feasible, this will not be the same.

Chapter Text

The disappearance of Jessica Jones was likely to change the timeline, but it’s ripples have become tidal waves. The lives of everybody around her change so drastically as this timeline continues to spread and grow.

It is like watching a colony of ants persevere, despite the impending doom of a god watching over them in their tiny glass case. I cannot interfere, bound to never break the barrier between me and them, but I am tempted to aid these people. I feel guilt as their lives crumble or change…

But I cannot.

***

Nothing more weighed on Trish’s mind, than the unexplainable disappearance of Jessica. She dwelled on it constantly, tossing and turning at night, before erupting in a sudden horrific panic as the memories of the gruesome sight in the English caravan poisoned her sleep. Blood and bodies and terror and pain – that all followed Kilgrave’s wake, and she could only imagine the sheer dread Jessica must have been experiencing every day.

“So, we have a case, right?” Trish questioned, sitting eagerly in a sunlit office. She was high amongst New York City, the beautiful landscape of skyscrapers, most of which were still recovering from the Battle a little over 2 years prior. Sat opposite her, with her head buried in her hands, was Hogarth.

“I think so.” Hogarth nodded, smiling weakly as she glanced up. “With the drug bust gone wrong down at Central Park last week, there’s strong evidence of gross negligence at the NYPD. Their mishandling of an intrusion by ninjas and letting Jessica go face-to-face with Kilgrave is evidence enough. But you do know that this victory, which I will guarantee you, is only temporary. It won’t help bring back Jessica.”

Trish nodded her head, a sadness crossing her face as she considered her adoptive sister. Out there, alone and sad, victim to Kilgrave every day. “I know.” She muttered quietly before a streak of rage flickered across her face. “But they’ve not done anything to help us find Jessica. I’ve quit my job to take this on – full-time.” Her eyes swelled with a cluster of tears, as her face stared back with utter determination. She leant across the table, her fists clenched and teeth gritted.

Hogarth sighed, smiled weakly and glanced towards Trish. “Which is why, alongside the fact that Jessica was a close friend – though never let her hear that – I won’t be charging you for this case. I’ll take a percentage of what you win, but not a penny before that.”

“But what about the div-” Trish looked puzzled and concerned, almost guilty. She wiped the tears from her face and watched as Hogarth shook her head. It was evidently a sore subject for her, and Trish’s eyes were quickly drawn towards the totally absent ring on her finger. As the silence settled, almost like dust sprinkling the land, the door erupted with a sudden knock.

Calling them in, Hogarth’s face bristled with a comforting smile as a young blonde woman wandered in. The clacking sound of her heels, slapping against the wooden flooring, echoed throughout the room as she approached with a handwritten note for the lawyer.

Trish watched politely, just as aware as everyone of the relationship between Pam and Hogarth. A part of her watched nosily, whilst the other wanted privacy for their discussion. She watched as Pam gave a small peck on Hogarth’s cheek, before smiling gently back to Trish.

“I’m sorry about your talk show.” Pam remarked, smiling gently. “I listened to it quite a lot.”

Hogarth glanced up, taking the written note from Pam’s hand with an initial flicker of a smile. “Her show is on during your work hours, how would you know?”

There was a playfulness in Hogarth’s voice, which quickly dissipated as her eyes turned towards the note. Pam’s face filled with a pang of anxious guilt, reluctant to reply to Hogarth’s teasing retort, noticing the avid frustration in her eyes.

Releasing a heavy sigh and scrunching the note up, Hogarth nodded her head to Pam. She watched as Pam sauntered out of the room quickly, wanting to avoid the clear agitation that splattered across Hogarth’s face. Meanwhile, Trish watched confused and intrigued. Although she didn’t want to pry into the detail’s of Hogarth’s life and secret notes, she felt a natural urge to know more.

Glancing back towards Trish, Hogarth ushered the frustration, brimming in her eyes, away. A forced façade of a smile etched across her face, barely watching as Pam wandered out from the office. Pam, young and beautiful and everything Hogarth desired, smiled weakly back as she closed the door. Guilt and regret toning her pale flushed face.

“Sorry about that.” Hogarth quickly uttered, taking a deep breath as the walls of the room trembled slightly as the door shut. “Your case is a guaranteed win, Trish. Publicity will be enough to shine a bad light on the NYPD, especially since they’re already in tricky waters. I think the only reason they’ve not faced any serious backlash is the Unknown Hero – but a lawsuit, raising issue on negligence surrounding Jessica Jones’ case will be certainly of interest. Especially if we can get Fisk on our side.”

“Is that wise?” Trish interjected, having sat with Karen over many coffees and bourbons on the secret life of Wilson Fisk. The evil empire plotting behind his campaign for betterment. “Rumour has it he has most of the NYPD on his payroll.”

“That’s a rumour for a different day. What’s important is that we serve them today – which I will do, after I sort something out.” There was a stern and irritated glint in Hogarth’s eyes, as she uncrumpled the paper clasped in her hand. Scanning the note written, she let out a deep and heavy breath, before standing up from her chair.

Sauntering around the desk, her heels too clacking against the floor, Hogarth rested her hands on Trish’s shoulders. A comforting expression etched across her face, as her actions indicated for the radio-host to stand up too.

“We all want Jessica back. She was a great asset to us, and I have a job waiting for when she’s back. But until then, we’ll get our revenge on those bastards who let her go.” Hogarth’s face filled with a newfound fiery confidence. Her words spurred a new outlook in her eyes and she watched as Trish wandered towards the door.

They exchanged their goodbyes, both hoping their efforts to sue the NYPD would work. Trish threw her a gentle smile, somewhat disappointed she hadn’t unearthed the reason for Hogarth’s changing display of emotions.

Resting against her desk, Hogarth stared down at the skewed piece of paper in her hand.

Wendy Called. Wants to meet. Divorce Paper issue?

Frustration resided in Hogarth’s face, as she recalled what desperation had led her to do. She knew, had Jessica been around, it would have been easy to force her wife to sign divorce papers and accept a settlement she deemed considerably fair. Jessica’s powers were occasionally a tool for her obstacles, just as her legal contacts were a tool for Jessica. A mutually beneficial relationship of which she often exploited.

But having been caught with Pam one day, and Wendy putting up a fight, Hogarth had resorted to professional forgery. She had taken hold of every example of her wife’s signature (wedding certificate, mortgage, work forms) and handed it over to a trustworthy contact. She waited a few days, and found a package arriving at her door.

Having locked the door, she sat alone at her desk. Of course, she held reservations, anxiety flooded her mind increasingly. Her eyes would glance towards her wedding ring, which she kept on her desk.

But as she ripped open the file, she promptly found the divorce papers she had requested. Amongst the agreements and technicalities of ending the marriage, were signatures by Wendy. Allegedly signed by the woman she once loved, but had grown to tolerate and gradually despise.

Except it wasn’t Wendy who had signed them, and soon enough Wendy would find herself losing assets in her life she once considered shared.

Now, Hogarth anticipated that she had noticed.

***

April’s cold nip tainted the air. Every breath taken appeared as fizzling steam, whilst skin unprotected by layers of clothing was pierced by a painful growing numbness.

Trish, however, was smart enough to saunter through the streets of Hell’s Kitchen with a hat and gloves and scarf, all of a cream-coloured which complimented her smart grey coat. A pair of sunglasses hid her identity, wanting nothing less than fans to notice either Trish Walker.

As she approached Jessica’s apartment – or what had now become a remnant shrine to Jessica, kept neatly by Karen – she found an obstacle in her way.

Stood obtusely in the doorway was an agitated-looking woman. She hair flowed down to her shoulders, whilst her fringe cast a small shadow over her piercing eyes. She wore a green undershirt, coupled with a reddish denim dungaree. Fixing her eyes on Trish, she intentionally blocked the doorway.

“Sorry – do you mind?” Trish asked politely, tilting her head slightly as she peered into the grungy entrance to the apartment. There, she watched a dark-haired man, with a button nose and distinguishable ears, carrying a box towards the entrance.

“Yes, actually, I do.” She spitefully replied, glaring forwards. Her attention was now drawn to her own reflection in the sunglasses, promptly folded her arms as she did so. “I don’t feel comfortable letting complete strangers into my building.”

“Your building?” Trish scoffed. Although, as she realised the woman was fuelled by a complete determination, Trish felt her fuse diminish. “I’ve got things to do – important things, okay?”

“What, is he charging by an hour?” Rebutted the woman suddenly, provoking a shock on Trish’s face. Before Trish could reply, which was slowly bubbling away in her mind, she was met with a strange glint in the woman’s eyes. Beneath her fringe, her eyes were toned with a sense of familiarity. Her eyes swelled with a scepticism, convulsing her to fold to her impulses.

Her arm shot forward and ripped the woman’s sunglasses off, swiftly staring into the face of Trish Walker. “Oh, look who it is. Little miss perfect Patsy. Of course you went blonde, thinking you’re better than us? Now look at you, hiding your face as you enter some random apartment, probably on your way to meet some sad random guy. I bet that’s how you got into acting, god knows you were never any good.”

She hit a nerve. Memories flooded her mind, all of which were horrendous and buried deep away. For a moment, all Trish could see was red. Bristling with unfathomable anger, Trish thrust her arms forward and pushed the woman back. As her vision returned, she watched as the red-haired woman stumbled backwards. Behind her, the man promptly dropped the box clutched in his hands, erupting with spare tattered clothes, and raced to catch her. Both of their eyes glanced back towards Trish with bewilderment and frustration, though neither quite able to speak.

“For your information,” Trish started, taking a step into the building, “I hated that wig.” Without anything else said, she headed towards the elevator. Her eyes dared not glance back, as a stream of tears collected along her eyes. Flashing in her mind were images she’d managed to keep bound beneath her life with the other trauma and horrors in her earlier life.

Listening to the scraping metal behind her, as the elevator sealed shut, Trish composed herself. Wiping away her tears and taking a few deep breaths, she waited until she arrived on the right floor. At that moment in time, all she wanted in the world was to see her sister. A cynical comment or brutally honest remark – something that made her feel normal.

Except, there was no chance of that. As she wandered out from the elevator, and crossed the corridor, her eyes peered into the smashed open door of Jessica’s ex-neighbour. The entrance was fraught with police tape, whilst the inside was an untouched mess, barely illuminated by the shut curtains. There was a story there, one she briefly recalled by Karen, who explained an incident concerning Malcolm and a drug dealer – though her own attention on finding Jessica had rendered that unimportant.

Some guilt resonated in her mind as she peered inside, wondering how things could have been better had Jessica not been kidnapped by Kilgrave.

With little point of dwelling on the imaginary concept of alternative timelines, Trish continued to Alias Investigations. The blurred door, imprinted with her logo, enticed her. She only hoped she would open it to find Jessica, though as she unlocked the door, she was welcomed by an emptiness.

Karen had returned home, leaving the apartment in a pristine appearance. It almost looked alien to any homestead Jessica would confine herself to, though the barren living room – complimented by nothing, as it bore not a single decoration. Nothing pleasing to the eye. Plastered across the walls were newspaper clippings and printed sheets, all of which had led Karen down constant dead ends.

She glanced around the wall, she admired it. The efforts went to tracking down Jessica were extensive, even if relatively unsuccessful.

Deep in the determined thought, hopeful to trace down Jessica and Kilgrave, she was soon disturbed by an unexpected ringing from her phone. Retrieving it from her pocket, a slate of dismay crossed her face. Her eyes caught onto her mother’s name, highlighted above a red and green button. For a moment, she considered ignoring it. Hanging up and sliding the phone back into her pocket, though another remained hopeful that she had finally seen sense.

“Hello, mother.” Trish replied, coldly and unenthusiastically.

“I’ve just heard you’ve opened a public appeal for Jessica’s whereabouts and you quit your job at the radio show. What are you thinking?” Dorothy barely acknowledged her daughters greeting, as she immediately barked down the phone enraged.

“I’m trying to find my sister.”

“I’m not having this same conversation with you young lady. Your job on that show kept your face in the media. Let’s be honest, dear, ‘It’s Patsy’ is a slowly fading memory and if you don’t stay around, you will be forgotten.”

“Honestly, I don’t care right now. Jessica is missing – you can ignore that or help, but I can’t go to work knowing she’s out there. Held captive by him. He is abusing her, mother. I can’t stand by and let that happen, especially since I know what that’s like. But I know you don’t care about that – you don’t care about anybody but yourself. So just leave me alone!” In a fit of rage, Trish launched her phone across the room. Smashing it against a wall, her eyes barely glanced down with a care as it shattered into a frivolous array of metal and glass and technological pieces.

Seething with anger, Trish hurtled towards the laptop sat on top of the desk. Tearing the lid open, she was suddenly met with a live news feed. She sat and watched intrigued for a moment, as a news reporter stood outside of a café.

“It is reported by eyewitnesses that a Doctor Selwyn was kidnapped at gunpoint by two armed assailants today. Rhonda Jackson, the cafe owner, reports the assailants to be a man and a woman – the woman having a notable burn mark across her left eye, which she covered with a pair of sunglasses. Why Doctor Selwyn has been kidnapped is unknown but-”

Trish promptly closed the tab, since the notion of kidnapping become somewhat normal was frankly terrifying to her. To an extent, it made sitting in a dark and empty apartment creepy and unnerving. But promptly dismissing the dwelling anxiety, Trish resorted to opening other tabs across the browser.

She used the terror striking her heart for some good. Browser tabs opened with various websites, all of which she could use to her advantage. Forums, mostly, filled the tabs. She spread he message of Jessica, linking her public appeal and the dangers of Kilgrave amongst it.

She hoped that somebody, somewhere, would notice the little noise she was making. Or even, in reaching enormously, she hoped Jessica would see. The swelling doubt in her mind was like a tumour, which she had to attempt to ignore as it remained lodged in her mind.

***

Hogarth sat nervously in her lavish house. Its very style was spewed with the style of a corporate owner, simple and expensive. Sat across from her, staring with dead fury, was her ex-wife. They had barely spoken a word between the time Hogarth invited her in and retrieved a glass of water for them both.

Now, however, it was a waiting game. A test of patience and nerve, as Wendy watched the once-love of her life with nothing but rage and disdain. Bustling around her mind were hundreds of things to start a conversation. A rant about the affair Hogarth had, the lies, manipulation, the demeaning nature of it all. But no less about the forgery. The active crime her now-ex-wife had committed in a sheer attempt to escape their vowed upon marriage.

“I thought things couldn’t get worse, Jerri.” Wendy finally spoke, a grim sorrow in her voice, perfectly matching with the pained expression in her eyes. “Our marriage fell apart because you had an affair with your younger, prettier, blonde receptionist. But then you had the audacity to forget our divorce papers. You’ve treated me like I’m nothing. Like I’m a leftover piece of a life you want to leave behind. All the fight you display in that office of yours, and yet you’re more coward than anybody I’ve ever met.”

“That is not fair, Wendy. I have every right, as anybody does, to leave if I’m not happy. And you haven’t made me happy in so long, I was beginning to accept the dread and misery of it all.”

“Seriously? You’re blaming me? I wanted to work through this! Make things better. Make us happier.” Wendy barked back, slamming her hand down onto the table, before thrusting her finger forward. “All you’ve ever cared about is yourself.”

“That’s not true.” Hogarth replied, calm and composed as she refused to stoop to anger. “I’ve always cared about you, Wendy. I loved you – in some ways I still do. But we would be kidding ourselves if we thought this could go anywhere but downhill.” Hogarth watched carefully, as Wendy reeled back in her seat. Their eyes fixed onto one another, a bristling rage sizzling between the two. A lovers’ tiff gone sour.

Wendy froze. Sat speechless, she considered how she could reply at all. Between them, resonating across the room was complete silence. It even felt as though the busy street outside had died of noise in anticipation.

“Why didn’t you just talk to me?” Wendy wondered, defeated finally. Water streamed her eyes, though her blurred vision still fixed on the woman.

“I didn’t want to prolong the inevitable anymore.” Hogarth admitted, remaining firm and stiff. “Because I was having an affair, where I was happy. And that was selfish, yes, but we all deserve happiness.”

“Except me?”

“No, Wendy, including you. This divorce means you can go out there and find somebody. You can find a new hobby, a new partner, a new place to live, a new everything.” Now they stayed fixed in their positions, their eyes interlocked and their faces solum and sombre. Misery etched across Hogarth’s, whilst a resonating guilt toned Wendy’s.

Wiping away a tear, finally admitting defeat, Wendy reached into her bag and retrieved a few stacks of paperwork. Hogarth watched curiously as Wendy wandered towards the corner, where a shredder sat plugged into the wall. “I was going to persecute, but there’s no point is there?” Hovering the stack of papers over the shredder, she waited to see her ex-wife’s reaction.

Sighing deeply, Hogarth shrugged her shoulders. “Whatever makes you happy.” There was a sly manipulation to her response, an awareness that Wendy was on the verge of flipping either way. She carefully nudged her towards thinking she had a choice, whilst her eyes told the woman it wasn’t worth it. There was fight and determination in Hogarth, evidenced by the fact she resorted to forging the signature.

Soon enough, the stack of papers were nothing but snow-like papers. Hogarth watched, her relief hidden under a calm façade. The consequences of her actions avoided, her ex-wife hopefully leaving the situation alone.

“Fuck you, Jerri.” Wendy swiped her bag from the couch and stormed out the room, smashing a glass photo frame against the ground. Spilling out into hundreds of shattered pieces was a photograph of Pam and Hogarth, arm in arm, gleaming smiles across their faces.

Now Hogarth burst into tears. Guilt burst from her, as she accepted the years of misery she dredged through were over. That she hadn’t suffered consequences for her desperation. Freedom for the looming anxiety of what would happen. She was unburdened.

***

Although Trish Walker would wait anxiously for some useful help, there would surface nothing quite of substance. Time passed her by, leaving the hope Jessica Jones would ever return deep in the past.

Events unfolded elsewhere, however. A division at SHIELD caused it’s own conflicts, whilst the relations between Humans and Inhumans were divided. In the cold and winter bases, the Scarlet Witch visited Wanda Maximoff, and Tony Stark unveiled his plans for an Iron Legion.

As the Watcher of this, it is my duty to inform you of the consequences felt in this timeline. However, do not assume that the lives of Jessica Jones and Matt Murdock are so small they bear no significance on these events.

Chapter Text

Across all universes, the Battle of Sokovia is often a vital moment in history. It prefaces untold conflicts, and is one of the Scarlett Witches many losses. It would set a future for a new league of Avengers, and a new precedent for superheroes.

However, before the battle, war appeared to be squandered by Tony Stark. The Avengers would target a Hydra base, and encounter the Maximoff twins for the first time, all whilst the Agents of Shield found their own conflicts brewing in their own ranks.

These initial events do not differ in this universe, but a few days after their victory, but the difference is found in the Avengers’ party – powerbrokers across New York City are invited to schmooze with the playboy billionaire, whilst the sentient Ultron is born.

***

Arriving to the top floor of the Avengers tower, which burst with music and cheer and flowed with alcohol, was Wilson Fisk. Linked in his arms was Vanessa Marianna, who wore a white dress which complimented Wilson’s dashing suit. His cufflinks were polished and aged with a history only they knew of, whilst his eyes investigated the room intrigued.

Stark tower buzzed with activity. Men in dapper suits and women in glamorous dresses, all wealthy as they sauntered around the party. World War II veterans, former SHIELD agents and the Avengers all populated the room too.

Warm atmospheric lights complimented the night sky, which various large glass panels peered out towards. The landscape of New York City was beautifully alit, and from this high up, the city was well deserving of it’s name as the city that never sleeps.

Tony Stark, playboy billionaire and self-confessed Iron Man, was first to spot the new arrivals. His face grew with an ecstatic grin, before he darted down a few steps and hurtled towards them both. “Welcome to the party, Wilson. Good evening Miss Marianna.” Tony kissed Vanessa on the cheek, smugly grinning, before he turned to shake Wilson’s hand.

Although, as he did so, he was met with a powerful strength, as Wilson gripped Tony’s hand and shook it with immense strength. “Thank you, Mr Stark. Though, I must say, I was surprised to find myself invited. Highfliers like yourselves rarely pay us much attention… especially since the Battle.”

“Consider this an olive branch. Now, I’ve got to get back – but enjoy the party, the booze is up over there. Play a game of pool, visit the balcony, check out the Quinnjet out there too. Have a nice night.” As quick as Tony was to greet the pair, he was quick to exit and scurry back up the stairs. Wilson and Vanessa watched, intrigued as the man returned to arguing with Thor.

“I have to say, if you told me a year ago I’d be standing in the Avenger’s Tower, I don’t think I would’ve believed you.” Exchanging a soft smile each, the pair stood in complete awe of one another.

“If you told me that I’d be in the company of a woman of such perfection on a night like this, I wouldn’t have believed you.” Wilson replied, flattering her greatly. Vanessa blushed, speechless for a moment, before they continued inside. Her face burst with a smile that couldn’t quite be squandered.

“-Fly it right up to the general’s palace, drop it at his feet. I’m like: Boom, You looking for this?”  An eruption of laughter followed as James Rhodes told one of the few stories he had. Wilson and Vanessa glanced towards the collective group, scanning to see if he knew any of them, though promptly found that he didn’t.

Passing the array of couches, all white and pristine, Wilson and Vanessa wandered up the steps and towards the bar. Their eyes watched as Thor and Tony wandered off, arguing about their significant others as they did so.

Veterans wandered by, white hair clasped under their beige hats, whilst their gruff old voices laughed joked. They spotted Steve Rogers wandering up a flight of stairs, whilst Clint Barton sat in the corner busy texting away. Natasha Romanoff conversed with a group of women, and Bruce Banner fretted over a clipboard of papers.

Taking champagne from the bar each, poured in extravagant and tall coned glasses, the pair paused and glanced around. Wilson smiled as people passed by, before peering back to Vanessa. He looked pale and flushed for a moment, a seed of worry and concern beginning to blossom in his mind.

“Perhaps, this was not such a wise idea.” Wilson admitted, peering back to the woman he felt complete admiration for. Vanessa locked eyes with him, curious for a moment. “This world of heroes… is not our world.”

“Wilson, you are a hero in your own way. As are these people.” Placing down her drink, Vanessa took his hands and reassured him with a gleaming smile. “Now, I’m going to check out Tony Stark’s art collection over there – you, make friends.” Kissing Wilson gently, Vanessa promptly swiped her drink from the bar and wandered towards an array of paintings holstered to the wall.

Wilson stood, admiring her completely. His eyes darted around him, feeling small for once. Although, as the dawning sense of being outsized grew worse, he shook it off. He chose somebody to talk to, his eyes darting around before fixing on Bruce Banner. The man stood timidly in the corner, barely glancing up from his small stash of papers, trying to dispel the attention of the oncoming Wilson Fisk.

“Mr Banner, I assume?” Wilson towered over the quiet and shy scientist, who glanced up nervously.

“Dr. Banner, actually, but yes.” He corrected quickly, adjusting his glasses as his eyes met with Wilson’s. Although the two had never met, Wilson had always seemed to carry an intimidating aura about him. Strength and passion, a stoic rage resonating in his eyes at all times. It had been months since Wilson made his public debut, and so far his organisation had found donors from around the city to fund his project to improve the city - though most, like Bruce, had an intuition that something was off with the man. “Sorry, I have some important work to-”

“I know you’re a busy man, Dr. Banner. But I had hoped somebody of your background would be able to help me.”

“You’re a pretty big enough guy, Mr Fisk, you don’t need to be hulked out.”

Wilson chuckled; letting out genuine and sincere laugh. “No, no. Your condition is something I do not envy, and I apologise greatly for it. But with your scientific background, I had hoped you could help find a vaccine against a man who poses a great threat to the world.”

Bruce stared with intrigue, his mind racing through the various men who threatened the world – of which there were plenty. Although, as he considered Wilson’s history, he promptly came to an understanding.

“Kilgrave?” Bruce wondered, quickly met with a grunt and a nodding of his head. “Theoretically, based on the little I know about that case, it’s entirely possible. But it would require rigourous testing. It wouldn’t be a simple feat. Viruses are already difficult to test and create vaccines for – but one as unique as Kilgrave’s?”

“I would appreciate if it could be considered, at the very least. A mind like yours, and funding from Mr Stark, could really boost this protective measure.” Wilson spoke with a grave seriousness, his eyes fixed on Bruce. “If Kilgrave is not found soon, I fear he may be more than a threat to me or this city, but the world. His intentions are not yet known, but should he want world domination, he is a single instruction away from getting whatever he wants.” Wilson paused for a moment, watching as Bruce’s face set alight with a concerned realisation of what a threat Kilgrave posed. “I’ll leave you to your work, Dr Banner, but please consider my warning.”

*

As the night continued, Wilson and Vanessa found themselves a comfortable seat in the midst of the party. People approached them, discussed Wilson’s intentions and his encounter with Kilgrave, before wandering away. However, through it all, Wilson’s attention was fixed on Vanessa. He praised and complimented her throughout it all, clasped onto her hand and smiled with complete awe.

The pair got to know a variety of people from the city. Most were rich, with little intention on building the city up, but instead their own financial empires. But every contact Wilson could latch onto was a win for his campaign.

He’d even shared a few small conversations with some Avengers and SHIELD agents, though kept mostly to the company of Vanessa. He’d used the night to set a platform for his cause, and within that, it appeared to be a success.

Eventually, after a gentle squeeze of his hand, Vanessa gathered to her feet and wandered to the bathroom. Wilson watched her, pure love oozing from his eyes, distracting him entirely from the sudden arrival of a woman sat beside him.

A quiet and stealthy woman, frail in appearance, lowered herself on the white leather couch. Wilson turned towards her, confused for a moment as he felt the seat beneath him sink with another person’s arrival. Though, he quickly laid eyes upon Madame Gao. Silent, and almost cast in her own shadow, she merely smiled at Wilson.

“I wouldn’t have expected to see you here.”

“Nobody knows that I am.” She replied, her voice barely a whisper as a smile etched across her face. “But it is always wise to keep an eye on those who could very well be an enemy.” As Madame Gao spoke, it almost felt as though the tower was filled with silence. Wilson’s dread, intimidated slightly by the masterful mind which belonged to his ally, drowned out the music and the chatter from around him.

“I don’t believe many of these people care enough for New York, let alone Hell’s Kitchen. Our affairs are all in order.” Wilson reassured her, unsettled slightly by her vague and cryptic words. Readjusting her walking stick, Madame Gao merely smiled gently towards Wilson. A cunning and wise expression.

“Soon, the Black Sky will be a strong weapon for my organisation – however, the surveillance technologies of Tony Stark pose a threat to that. I suggest you keep your ears close to the ground, and your eyes on the goal.” Madame Gao leaned in close to Wilson, her eyes glared up towards him. The façade of the frail old lady dropped for a moment, as he hand shot towards his inside pocket and gripped onto a small velvet box. “I understand your affection for Vanessa, but to slay the dragon of love is a misguided step.”

Wilson sighed, his face failing to keep the pretence of frustration and sadness as he watched Madame Gao crush the box with her own hand. He watched as a symbol of love, an engagement ring, was nothing but a fragile object to Madame Gao.

“When the Hand has achieved it’s goals, Kilgrave will be turned back over to you. You may make his imprisonment a public display, but he is vital to our endgame. We will see each other soon, Wilson.” Without uttering another word, she pushed herself to her feet and bowed her head towards Wilson. As she began to walk away, leaving behind a stunned and devastated Wilson Fisk, the music and chatter began to swarm around him once again. For just a moment, he peered towards the bathrooms, hoping to spot Vanessa, though to no avail. Glancing back to Madame Gao, he swiftly noticed she had vanished. The party burnt brightly, but the slow elderly lady was almost invisible to him.

*

The party slowly dwindled as the night went on. The music quietened, softened. The chatter drew to a close and the people began to leave. Some, like one elderly man who had struggled to take the brunt of a finely matured Asgardian whisky, were carried out to their cars – whilst others left with a new partner clutched in their arms. Company for the night.

Wilson, however, found himself stood upon the balcony. It was home to a Wuinnjet – a ship of no ordinary design. But his attention was upon the city below, with its beauty only beaten by the sight of the woman beside him.

“I told you tonight would be good, didn’t I?” Vanessa rested her hand on his, as they stood against the balcony. The cold nip of the air followed in the wind, and the bellowing sound of horns and music and people burst from down below.

Standing this high up gave Wilson a perspective of the city. He was no longer centred in Hell’s Kitchen, but within the centre of New York City itself. He could see the remnants of the Battle still remaining, but he also saw a massive land to conquer and improve.

Peering back to Vanessa, part of him felt guilt. He had wanted to use this opportunity to get down on one knee and propose. To confess his love and commitment, but Madame Gao had crushed that dream – quite literally.

“I still believe the world these heroes occupy is different to ours.”

“You change people’s lives. You make tough decisions, with outcomes that are good and bad. You are more a hero than any of those, as you don’t need suits or god-like powers. You have charm, and a brilliant mind, and a heart of compassion.”

“I- I appreciate your words, Vanessa, but it is not an issue of insecurity. Their world is one I do not envy, because they leave devastation in their wake. What upsets me, truthfully, is how Dr. Banner can stand inside there as a praised scientist after he destroyed Harlem. Or how Tony Stark can throw a party for us all after the events that happened years ago. But my actions, fixing Hell’s Kitchen, is met with lunatics in masks and unnatural powers.”

“I didn’t know Matt Murdock and Kilgrave still weighed on your mind.”

Wilson sighed as he peered towards her, expressing a side of vulnerability only ever witnessed by her. “I hoped I could use tonight to help me. But Tony Stark has been much too busy, and Dr. Banner appeared dismissive. Kilgrave is out there, and I fear for your safety should he return.”

Vanessa, appreciative of Wilson’s concerns, smiled towards him. She gripped his hand a little tighter and admired his true vulnerable side. “As long as I am by your side, I am not scared of anything.”

***

Although reports has suggested there had been an altercation at the Avengers Tower after the party, the world continued unaware of the threat posed to it. The following days had indicated some tension, as the Avengers went AWOL after the Hulk rampaged through the streets in Johannesburg, and Captain America and the Black Widow were spotted chasing trucks through motorways in Seoul.

The events worldwide had prompted Fisk to speak out publically, decrying the dangerous acts superheroes followed and the devastation that often left in their wake. But his attention had most notably focused on his own plans.

He spent nights with Vanessa and days with advisors and donors, but also secretly with the leaders of organised crime. His plans to tear the city down and rebuild it were kicked into motion, as he cultivated crime for wealth and brought harmony amongst them all.

But it took one event to disrupt his plans. The world was thrown into red alert, as international panic set across the world. An entire country, though small in size, raised into the sky. Robots, much like the automated suits of Tony Stark, assaulting the rising city.

117 citizens died and massive damage to the country was done. The world gasped, and panic filled every nation who witnessed it. Although the Avengers had saved the people of Sokovia, the nation’s future was stunted and the world watched in horror for their actions. Fear and rage gathered through the governments of the world, all terrified.

“Today, I put forward a request to Tony Stark.” Wilson Fisk briefly paused, as he stood before the entrance to his penthouse. Cameras flashed and journalists watched intrigued, as Wilson Fisk called a meeting in the emergence of an international crisis. “I take a grasp of the olive branch extended just a few days ago, and I demand he stop his work as Iron Man! Not only has he opened a facility for the Avengers, but they remain operational within the city. As somebody who seeks to better this city, I only see their place here as a detriment to our improvement!”

Of course, Wilson Fisk’s declaration was merely a tactic to rid the eyes of the Avengers from the Hand. Madame Gao’s cryptic organisation had made suspicious movements, in recent weeks, and the Avengers were viable threats to it all.

Regardless, as he stood tall and fair amongst the crowd, he felt like a hero. Not super at all, but powerful and noble. Making a stand against the threats of his world, Wilson Fisk was adorned as an incredible and significant member of the New York City elite.

“Mr Fisk!” Cried out a reporter, eager and excitable. “Are you making this request in light of Matt Murdock’s recent allegations?”

Fisk let out a boisterous and forced laugh, as he stared down towards the woman. “Matthew Murdock sought to better this city from the shadows! He considered vigilantism a righteous path of improvement, but this was not the case. Mr Murdock was another poison to this city, one that the Avengers are encouraging.”

“So you’re claiming his allegations are false?”

“Of course. His claims that I have been involved in criminal organisations is ludicrous and based on nothing but an attempt to justify his attack on me. An attack caused by the manipulation tactics of Kilgrave – a man who the NYPD has failed to find, and their failure is now under investigation, following a lawsuit for their negligence. It is these issues I intend to fix!”

After a few more questions were answered, Fisk returned to his penthouse. The lavish interior was complimented by a few artistic additions made by Vanessa, whilst guards waited outdoors, armed with rifles. The penthouse glimmered with sunlight, shining across the tonally constant white and grey which splattered across it.

As Fisk entered, however, he was met by two gruff and furious men. They sat anxiously on Fisk’s couch, leaping to their feet as their eyes set upon their own leader. The Ranskahov brothers were a key part of Fisk’s operation, handling the trafficking and smuggling of Madame Gao’s ‘product’. Now, however, something across their face suggested to Fisk a redundancy in their efforts.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen.” Fisk nodded his head at both, marching across the room towards them. His eyes fixed on the two scruffy men, whose expensive suits contrasted their ragged stubble. “What is it?” He questioned, noticing their hesitation.

“The events in Sokovia have… disrupted our operations. Countries are tightening their borders. Products are becoming harder to ship.”

“This conversation is better had with Madame Gao, is it not?” Fisk wondered, pouring himself a glass of water. His eyes peered back towards the men, who appeared sheepish and nervous.

“We have, we are finding a solution, but temporarily it means the Irish have found an advantage against us.” Fisk froze. He considered their statement for a moment, before placing the glass down and wandering across the room. He towered over them, before staring blankly at them both.

“The Irish are attempting to recover from the Central Park Massacre – this new footing they have found is dangerous for us.”

“Then I want you to deal with it.” Fisk stated bitterly. “Anybody who attempts to intrude on our operation – I want you two to deal with it. I know you are perfectly capable of that, and I cannot be seen getting my hands dirty. My plan to run for mayor is soon – the slightest interference with that plan you cause, I will be more than happy to dispose of you.”

However, Fisk’s warning was not enough to keep the brewing trouble at bay. As the Irish clamoured for power, and Fisk and his allies suffered, the empire Fisk had brought about began to crumble. The Irish attacked their bases, exposed some of their lesser-known members, and altogether made Fisk’s life harder.

Tensions divided the leaders, and Fisk feared for the safety of his newfound lover. Under the cautious advice of Madame Gao and Leland, Fisk sought to find protection for Vanessa.

Some weeks had passed by, and whilst Sokovia recovered the tension around the world settled, Fisk knew he needed to be brasher. Tactful and dangerous. He needed his opponents to fear him and therefore, amongst all the fears and concerns that littered the world, Wilson Fisk resorted to one old saying: to keep your friends close and your enemies closer.

Soon enough, as Wilson Fisk devised his own plan, he arrived at the gates of Rhyker’s Island. Ushered through with armed guards, and sat down in an empty room, a glass barrier dividing it and an empty seat across from him, he waited calmly.

“Mr Murdock is on his way, Mr Fisk.”

Chapter Text

In the universe you know, it is Wilson Fisk who endures months of imprisonment after Mathew Murdock, Foggy Nelson and Karen Page exposed his vast criminal network. However, these events never came to fold in this universe.

Instead, Mathew Murdock was imprisoned for his night-time activities. Karen Page found obsession in tracking down Jessica Jones. Whilst Foggy Nelson settled into a new life, trying to release his best friend from the imprisonment he considered unjust.

With the path of this universe differing so vastly, we must observe his experience to understand Matthew Murdock which Wilson Fisk would re-encounter months later.

***

Darkness shrouded the world Matt had found himself in. Not only did he try his best to refrain from the burning reddish world he was cursed to bear witness to, but the people around him seeped with pain evil. He awoke every morning with cells attached to criminals who had done some of the worst imaginable acts. Obscene and horrific people, all whilst mixed with people who had merely committed theft out of desperation, or fraud to some capacity.

Matt often sat alone in his cell, waiting for time to pass. He recounted in his mind the calming techniques his father taught him, fuelled by the patience he’d learnt to accept and hone throughout his life.

It hadn’t been long until Dutton, the prison’s most reputable prisoner, arrived at the door of Matt’s cell. With a nod of his head, he summoned the door to be opened by a guard he had onside, and slowly entered inside.

Although he couldn’t see Dutton, he could tell from his voice he was probably an ugly man. He sneered often, his heartbeat constantly beating fast as though he was always on the verge of a heart attack, whilst others often complained about him behind his back.

“Matt Murdock. The Man in the Mask.” He started, a confidence beaming in his gruff voice as he leaned against the bars. Matt twitched his head, a beam of sunlight piercing the little vision he had. “The man who nearly bought down the infamous Wilson Fisk, were it not for the Devil.”

“Fisk’ll be bought down eventually, Mr Dutton, just as you were.” Matt spoke quietly, listening as the man slowly wandered inside. He could feel Kilgrave’s voice clawing away deep in his mind, thirsting over violence.

“We haven’t met before, have we?” Dutton asked, now towering over Matt, who sat on the edge of his makeshift bed.

“I’ve been around enough to recognise the reputation of a man like you. Murder and running drugs – you’re the exact type of people I took down.”

Dutton chuckled, a small pocket of air with a horrible stench trickling out of his mouth. “Careful, Matty, you’re sounding like a fed. The one thing nobody likes in.”

Matt paused, a grin etching across his face as he smirked back at him. His eyes, though blinded slightly by the piercing sunlight, could just about make out the position of Dutton. His nose caught a smell, lingering and bound to the fabric of the man’s jumpsuit. The exact same cologne officer Carrington used.

Dutton turned around to the two goons behind him, laughing at Matt for a moment, before his attention fixed back on the hunched-over ex-vigilante. “You’re awfully close to the guards in here. How many times did you have to do certain favours for Officer Carrington to earn you that?” Matt questioned. His ears instantly picked up the man’s heartbeat, which although usually pounded quickly, was now heavy and at a concerning pace.

Matt could hear the furrowing eyebrows of the goons, and the nervous clammy lips of Dutton trying to find the words to save his back.

Dutton jolted forward and gripped onto the collar of Matt’s orange jumpsuit. “I don’t know what you’re fucking on about, but you best keep that mouth of yours sealed tight.”

Etching across Matt’s face was a dastardly grin, amused by his own thoughts. Though, before long, he felt a clawing voice in the back of his mind.

“Who does this fucking prick think he is? Ask him, go on!” Kilgrave’s voice bellowed throughout Matt’s mind, echoing throughout every corner. Impulsed by the seeping raging voice, Matt complied.

“Who the fuck do you think you are?” Hitting Dutton’s arm at just the right angle, he felt a crunching of the bone. A pain surged throughout it, whilst he timed a jolt of his leg at a perfect moment to launch the man against the wall in front of him. The impulsive action shocked Matt himself, who gathered to his feet. He heard as the pair of goons at the door began to wander inside, before Dutton warned them off.

“Leave him – asshole’s not worth it.” Dutton stated, glaring at Matt with a rage brewing in his eyes. Dutton leant in closer, gritting his teeth whilst a scent of blood simmered on his breath. “Remember this, I’m the Kingpin of this bitch. Watch your back.”

Listening as Dutton’s footsteps drew away from the cell, and his door cranked shut, Matt staggered to his feet. He collapsed down upon the bed and a swelling mix of emotions filtered through his mind. Fear and anger and remorse and fury swirled together. They burst in his mind and ultimately climaxed as Matt let out a horrific scream.

The very noise burst his own eardrums, and he progressively was consumed by a light-headedness. He soon dropped against the bed, his head slamming against the almost-concrete slab.

“I think we’re going to have a lot of work to do in here, Matthew.” Kilgrave’s voice was almost a whisper as Matt fell unconscious.

His unexpected burst of rage wasn’t uncommon during his first few months. It had gained him a reputation of being occasionally unstable, whilst also significantly adept to defending himself. Before long, he found himself in a small band of friends. Slim pickings in prison, but he soon was allied to Stewart Finney and the Valdez brothers.

Matt resorted to spending his time alone thinking about Kilgrave. He paid particular attention to the news, especially when mentions of him were made.

But as the well of information dried up, so did the interest. Attention turned to reports of powered people, or the Massacre at Central Park. Victories of the Avengers or the reports on corrupt government officials. Soon, Kilgrave became a distant and forgotten figure – beside a few days, when Trish Walker stumbled across the horrific murder scene of Kilgrave’s parents in an English Caravan.

As the nights drew warmer, and the smell of spring teased him from beyond the gates, Matt felt Kilgrave’s presence worsen. On occasion, he could feel Kilgrave sitting in the corner of a room. His breathing was noticeable, but there was no smell of his potent cologne or the beating of his heart. Sometimes Matt would awake at night, and hear Kilgrave talking to himself, sitting on the toilet – but he wasn’t really there.

Trying his best to keep to himself often left the voice of Kilgrave out of his mind. An itching, clawing nauseating voice demanded his violence.

Although, as time continued, Matt found the voice growing louder. Like a whisper in his ear that sent a shock of goosebumps down his body, hair standing on edge, or occasionally a shrieking voice resonating within his mind.

On the worst occasions, Matt had found himself leaping into action. Fists clenched, his senses honing in on someone despicable. Often, Matt made it out with a few cuts and bruises and scratches, though leaving the other fractured and broken. Many questioned how Matt was so capable, and all of his fellow inmates were unaware he could hear any and all of their plots.

Kilgrave’s voice and present gnawed away at Matt, and it was only the fragment of the outside world that he occasionally caught that rid of Kilgrave. Whenever Foggy would visit, and they’d sit down and spoke for as long as they could, Kilgrave’s presence appeared timid in his mind. Cautious and reluctant.

“I’ve not got much news,” Foggy told Matt, on one of months in the early days of June. He glanced through the glass pane, guilt crossing his face as he did so. “Except Karen’s left Hell’s Kitchen for a while. Something about Trish training with some old dude?”

“It’s probably for the best. This city doesn’t do anybody any favours.” Matt stated, leaning his head against the phone, though knowing perfectly well he had no use for it. “As long as she’s safe, Foggy. That’s all I care about. As long as you’re all safe.”

Foggy smiled slightly, “How are things in there? That Dutton guy given you much trouble?”

Matt swelled with guilt, pausing and taking a deep breath. “Dutton’s been fine, but they put me in solitary confinement for a few days last week.”

“What? Seriously? Matt, we’re trying to get you out of there!” Foggy reacted instantly, outrage mixing with panic and worry. “Hogarth’s taken up your case – taken half of my paycheck for it.”

“I know, Foggy. But this man, he… he-” Matt stuttered and froze, not quite able to let the words escape his mouth. Although Foggy didn’t know the words sitting on the edge of Matt’s tongue, his imagination saw to finishing his sentence. Foggy reassured him everything was okay, whilst Matt stumbled over his words. “I’m fine.” Matt finally admitted, inhaling heavily before tilting his head back towards Foggy’s direction. “When I’m out of here… everything will be fine.”

***

Gradually, Matt had lost track of time. He rarely got to know the date, and only caught glimpses of the outside world whenever he was visited. Fisk’s men slowly piled in, all incriminated by exposed plots involving the Irish. There was some comfort in hearing of Fisk’s empire crumbling. No power structure could survive without it’s little men running around – no less a criminal empire.

Issue was, however, every new addition meant a new claw for power seared into Matt’s mind. Kilgrave latched on harder, firming his grasp on Matt’s mind. The voice drove him mad, as it went untreated and unnoticed.

The glimpses of the outside world became evermore important for Matt, though he could only rely on Foggy’s visits sporadically. As Foggy’s life became more burdened, the time between the visits grew longer, and Kilgrave seeped in stronger.

Though, a few days or weeks after Matt had last met Foggy, he was called into a different interview room. He was guided through with handcuffs clamped around his wrists before his feet and wrists were chained down to a table. He was treated like a violent and obscene criminal – which he refused to believe he was in any capacity.

As he sat down and waited, the guards said little of what was happening. He caught whispers of a gentleman called Hank, from San Francisco, visiting to investigate something in Matt’s past. Though, before long, the scuttering feet of a swarm of bugs irritated his ears. The twitching and scampering and minuscule noises confused his ears, ultimately leading him to ignore the sounds and fixate on the guest.

The clanking door of the room bellowed throughout the corridors, the bars gearing open as guards stood armed at the door. Another man, who appeared older, but dressed in fine clothes (judging by the smell of his suit) and scented with a nice cologne.

Matt tilted his head as sought to recognise the smell, though it remained entirely unknown to him. Even the name Hank was relatively unknown to him, bar a few people he knew during his days at university.

Chained down to his seat, like a dog waiting for his owner, Matt patiently listened.

“Hello Matt.” The man’s accent was clearly not of the state, and definitely confirmed the suspicions of being from somewhere near San Francisco. By his voice, Matt could tell he was definitely and older gentleman, whilst a metal device dinged quietly in the palm of his hand. “And no, we’ve not met, before you ask.”

“I know that.” Matt commented apprehensively, his back straightened and his nerves trembling through his mind. “But your intentional ambiguity doesn’t help either of us, Hank.”

Hank grinned, before he leant forward. His elbows firmly pressed against the table, as his eyes glanced towards the camera watching them. A swarm of ants covered the lens, blocking any view of their meeting beside the unmanned cell door. “You’re one of the few people I’ve been watching to pull off a certain… job. You appear to have athletic skills, though looking through your records I suspect more of those skills are powers, caused by a certain type of hazardous oil you were exposed to when you were a child? Said oil, manufactured by Rand enterprises, stole your sight, but somehow incredibly improved your other senses.”

“Is this a joke?” Matt asked, defensively hiding growing anxiety in his heart. “I’ve trained to improve my skills – I don’t have powers.”

“I know that particular recent events have made people with powers a growing target, and I suspect the government discussions will only worsen that. But your skills are incredible – I’ve watched footage of you in action – and quite frankly, I’m impressed.” Before Matt could argue, his ears caught onto the sound of four ants scuttling across the table. Their tiny legs clacking against the cold metal surface, whilst a faint sound of screeching fabric followed. “I know you can hear them, Matt.”

“They’re listening to your commands… Like you’re some Ant Overlord?”

“I prefer Ant-Man.”

“Seriously?” Matt chuckled, a genuine laugh truly coming out of his mouth. It had been so long since he had laughed in any capacity – so much so he savoured the feeling for a moment, before scepticism followed. “I don’t know what you want from me.”

“Try the suit on.” Hank instructed, grinning as he spoke quietly.

“What suit?”

“The one they’re carrying.” Matt tilted his head, now catching onto the sound of the ants as they dropped down something along the table. A small clunk of metal followed with the creaking creasing of a fabric he didn’t entirely recognise. A fluster of confusion spread across his face, as he gestured his cuffed hands towards Hank. “It’ll be in your cell when you get there. Meet me tonight – I’ll have transport for you.”

“I’ve done my fair share of late-night rendezvouses, Hank, but there’s a small issue with doing that now.”

Hank shook his head dismissively, clearly agitated with Matt as he spoke. “Tonight, Matt.” With that, the old man pushed himself to his feet and wandered across towards the cell door. Ringing in Matt’s ears was the swarming ants beginning to retreat from the surface of the camera. Their scuttling, scampering feet clanged against the casing of the camera, down the wall and eventually into a small crack in the wall.

At the same time, Hank peered back towards Matt. He froze and stared at him, with a smile that Matt could make out by the slight creasing of his face. He sat perplexed, baffled by what the man wanted from him at all.

Fizzing around his mind were hundreds of questions, all of which sought to understand the vague arrival of the man. Even upon returning to his cell, he found nothing out of the ordinary. The guards found nothing suspicious or peculiar about the man, and didn’t even attempt to nosily ask Matt what he wanted.

His cell was untouched. His bed neatly made, his toilet and sink grungy as per usual. The piercing sunlight, which accompanied the sweltering sun, filtered through the window opposite his cell. Ringing in his ears were hundreds of other conversations happening around him between guards and inmates.

Sitting down, he shut his eyes as to avoid the piercing sunlight which burned through the little vision he retained. He listened to every sound around him, every creaking pipe or aggressive conversation, every sharpened shiv and snort and sniffle.

Eventually, he caught onto the sound of Hank’s feet. Leather shoes slapping against the concrete, approaching a parked car. He caught onto the sound of his heartbeat, and though it was faint from where he stood, it was noticeable. It was soon joined by another – a woman’s, he assumed as her voice quietly sounded through the opened car door.

“How did he seem about it?” She asked, before the car door slammed and their voices drew quieter.

“Suspicious. We’ll see tonight. Are we sure he’s the right candidate for this?”

“It’s him, that Scott Lang, or me.”

“I’ve told you, Hope. After what happened with your mothe-”

“No, no, I get it. You’re more willing to hand the task over to criminals than your own daughter.”

“I’m protecting you. Matt or Scott are skilful individuals whose criminal backgrounds should not be a detriment to them.”

Although Matt sat intrigued by the argument which unfolded, his attention was abruptly drawn towards a ringing throughout the prison. The sound burst his ears for a moment, leaving a painful ringing to resonate with great power inside his ears. He groaned as he pressed his hands against his ears, trying to rid of the pain.

Escape, he considered, would be nice.

*

As night drew in and the inmates filed into their cells, Matt’s ears listened out for Hank and the woman called Hope. The silence of the prison aided his concentration and before long, he found their heartbeats through an immense crowd of others. Their voices were quiet, discussing something irrelevant to whatever they were planning.

Frozen and still in one position, he poured all of his might into focusing on the noises around him. He tried paying attention to their conversation, hoping to discern any value from their discussion, though their ramblings on scientific theories and calculations, and occasional arguments gave him no interest.

Eventually, however, as the night continued and he laid anxiously in anticipation, Matt’s ears caught onto the sound of four scuttling ants once again. They crept through a crack in the wall and heaved a suit across the floor.

Matt sat up and listened patiently.

“Are we even sure he’ll work out how the suit works?” Hope asked with little confidence. However, before Matt could catch what Hank replied, an unexpected whirring sound burst from the floor. A whooshing followed, almost as a comical sound of something expanding, and Matt leant down. A new smell of metal tainted the air, whilst a specialised fabric mixed in the air.

Reaching down, he felt a suit flop into his hands, whilst a ringing sound from a metal helmet beside it buzzed quietly.

“I know you can hear me, Matt. Put the suit on.” Hank’s voice instructed, with Matt hearing both Hank from afar and via the communications device implanted in the helmet. Matt halted, wanting nothing more than to jump into the suit and escape, but puzzled as to how it could work at all.

“Listen to the bastard!” Kilgrave’s voice bellowed from the corridor, almost as though he was leaning against the bars and peering inside with a devilish glee.

Complying, Matt promptly fitted into the suit and donned the helmet. As he stood within the suit, his mind flashed to when he was under Kilgrave’s instructions – the armoured suit he wore, with the cowl masking his identity. His breathing quickened, feeling Kilgrave’s presence lurk over his shoulder. Almost like a hand pressed against his shoulder, enticing him with great intrigue of what the suit was for.

In a fleeting panic, Matt scrambled for the release on the helmet. His fingers trembling, pushing against the metal frame around the ears – which unbeknownst to him was shaped like the head of an ant. In the frantic array, Matt felt a button click beneath his fingers.

The suit whooshed and the world around him changed. The sounds he was used to grew further and distant – whilst everything felt louder. The clicking of ants bellowed in his ears, their feet hitting the ground with incredible strength. The pipes roared as they creaked, whilst irritating distant splashes of water bellowed through the air.

Every single noise Matt recognised was magnified and amplified. The world felt larger around him, and everything he knew was tainted by a sudden change.

“Good job, Matt. Now, let the ants guide you out.” Hank’s voice was the only thing which retained normality, though it was drowned out by the immense deafening new world of sound which flooded the world around Matt. Every heartbeat and metal creak and belly rumble. Every snore and quiet whisper burst around him.

“No! No!” Matt shrieked, scrambling for the button he’d pressed to shrink himself. Panic surged through him. Terror, only felt a few times in his life. His mind was cast back to when he lost his eyesight, or when Kilgrave first seized control of him. “I can’t do this!” He yelled again, his own voice drowned out by the noisy world around him. The roaring of mice or beckoning scuttles of insects.

He frantically sought out the release button, and as he felt himself grow in size, normality resumed. The world fizzled with the piercing sounds and Matt ripped the helmet from his head. He panted frantically, taking in the air through his own mouth. He found solace in the return of his own world, even if the heightened senses was beyond natural.

Almost tearing the suit off his body, he refused any involvement in Hank’s plan. He rejected the role of a new superhero, for even his desperation to escape the mundanity of the prison wasn’t strong enough to let him experience that again.

***

Before long, once Matt had ridded of Hank Pym and his daughter, Matt’s next glimpse of the outside world was offered to him by an unexpected source. He could recognise the smell of Wilson Fisk, and even his unhealthy heartbeat – but the fascinated rumours of the Kingpin of New York spread throughout the prison. Inmates gathered to catch a glimpse of the large man, who sauntered past the gates with a furious glimmer across his face. The unamused attitude he was known for.

“Murdock!” Called out a guard, attracting Matt’s attention without warning. “An old friend wants to see you!” There was an amusement in the guards voice, for it wasn’t an unknown fact that Matt and Fisk had a history.

Chapter Text

In a different universe, Wilson Fisk and Matthew Murdock would meet in prison. However, the divergence of this universe means the opposite has happened. Matthew Murdock would be drawn out of his prison cell and sat across from Wilson Fisk, with all but a glass pane separating them.

***

“It has been some time since our last meeting, Mr Murdock.” Fisk spoke softly. His eyes fixed on Matt, whilst bearing across his face was a widening smile of satisfied glee.

“What do you want, Fisk?” With little care for entertaining his visitor, Matt spoke with utter apathy. His face filled with nonchalance, whilst his ears examined every aspect of the world around him. Through the phone clasped in his hand, and through the glass barrier separating them, Matt could hear the heavy breathing of Fisk. The pounding heartbeat of the man accompanied the sound, though Matt found no interest in that.

Fisk glanced around the room, gesturing for a guard to leave them for a moment. Without hesitation, to Matt’s surprise, the guard complied and wandered out of the room. Resonating around them was the hefty clinking of the door’s locks, ringing in Matt’s ears as he patiently waited for Fisk to continue.

“Recent events have led rivals to attack the foundation I have built to improve this city.”

“You mean the criminals who’ve been arrested and put in here?” Matt wondered, residing across his face was a humoured smirk. There was satisfaction in having particular knowledge which Fisk preferred kept silent – and considering his hearing was far beyond any others, he’d heard much more about Fisk than the man would have ever wanted known. Fisk was a private man, but his employers down the chain had stories and knowledge, even if that scraped the barrel.

Fisk swallowed for a moment, his heartbeat grew stronger for a moment as he considered his words. “The life of my dear Vanessa is threatened by my rivals, but with Kilgrave still loose in the wild, I cannot trust sending her away.” With a halt in his breath, a silence in his words, Fisk waited to continue. Matt tilted his head in anticipation, his interest now piqued. “Wise men know that to keep enemies closer than allies is wise. I have come to offer you leave from this prison. Your apartment and property, bestowed upon you once again. Under the condition that you protect Vanessa against anybody who threatens her.”

“You want me to work for you?” Matt posited, trying to understand the proposition.

“You will work for Vanessa. I, however, will facilitate the means for your employment.” Fisk corrected, his voice serious and deep. “I have a contract, specially printed in brail, for you to read and sign.” Fisk nodded his head to the guard stood on the opposite side of the room, who placed down a small stack of papers down in front of Matt.

Matt’s intrigue led him to clasp the papers, whilst running his hand along the brail. Interpreting each bump as a letter, he skimmed through the contract – it was an employment contract, as any other. How many hours he was expected to work, his duties, his wage. The conditions of overtime should it be necessary.

Although it was a clause outlining that defamation to Wilson Fisk’s name was a strict cause for termination of the contract, backed up by legal pursuits to ensure Matt could never survive beyond it.

From what he could interpret from the contract, he was essentially signing away his opinions. Making a deal with the devil, handing his soul over in exchange to feel freedom once again. The idea seemed ludicrous, an offer which would restrict him from ever getting justice from Karen – somebody who had dwelled on his mind quite a lot since he first entered.

“Why me?” Matt asked, his mind dwelling on the notion of freedom. Escaping the late nights, fleeing from the voice of Kilgrave who thrived in the cesspit of inhumanity. “You have enough money to buy a private army.”

“Money can buy all manners of protection, Mr Murdock. But none can quite guarantee the security that you can. I wonder what would have happened between us in a different life, had Kilgrave not interfered. Had the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen not tempted you.”

“Satan can take many forms, Fisk.” Matt spoke quietly, suspicion toning his voice.

“Indeed, he can. But so can miracles. I am offering you the chance to resume your life. Your home, your job, your friends. In exchange for the certainty that the woman I love can be safe. The Devil, as you believe I am, would never justify his actions in love. But I admit, all I care about is the safety of Vanessa.” Matt could sense the sincerity in Fisk’s voice, let alone his calm heartbeat.

“And you’re certain your allies will be okay with this? The Japanese and Russians weren’t fans of me.”

“If they do not see the importance of your release, then they do not understand my vision.”

“Which is?” Matt pried.

“To let the criminals destroy themselves. Let the fighting ruin their own structures. Let the Triads war amongst themselves, let the criminals draw into the prison cells. Regain the trust in our police force! Rid Hell’s Kitchen of it’s filth.” Fisk boasted with pride and determination, confident his ambition will essentially purify the city.

“But how does Vanessa play into that?”

“She doesn’t!” Fisk slammed his fist down against the table before him, trembling the glass pane between them as he did so. “She is never to be involved. Vanessa is my end goal – to ensure the city is as perfect as she is. Intelligent and beautiful, innocent and forgiving. Our love is what remains at the end of my pursuit.”

Matt scoffed at the idea. “You’re not seriously telling me that everything you’re doing is out of love. You live in a penthouse – you hid your mother in a fancy retirement home upstate. Fisk, you’re more out of touch with this world than the likes of Tony Stark, and a few months ago he built an army of robots who ended up lifting up a country.”

“Prosperity is what I offer. Not lower taxes or new cinemas or green spaces. Affordability and safety for citizens. Innocent people, who struggle every day. They will see the benefits of what I am striving towards.” Fisk, now enraged, shrieked out his words. He had no need for the phone clasped in his hand, as his voice echoed through the room and travelled through the glass. “I’m offering you a place in that, Mr Murdock! You and I, we care about this city. If you protect Vanessa, I can assure you, this city will see improvement.” He calmed down for a moment, returning to the calm state he was in moments prior. With a deep and heavy sigh, Fisk continued his words. “So, Matthew, do you accept my offer?”

Fisk stared at Matt carefully, observing his expression. He glanced down at the bright orange jumpsuit, and waited patiently for a reply. He waited, as Matt sifted through the papers, running his hands along the patterned brail, drawing words from the paper which essentially looked blank.

Brewing in his mind was a decision, as to whether accepting the offer was smart in any capacity. He considered the outside world, the sun on his face and air in his lungs. He considered freedom.

“We can’t leave yet!” Bellowed a voice from the corner of the room, pompous and vindictive. Fury raging from it’s pretentious British tone. “Half the fucking inmates are still alive. You’ve got murderers, rapists, drug dealers, and traffickers all in here. Leaving now means we don’t have access to them – we can’t get rid of the bastards for good. Punishment. We could find real justice for them, Matt. Punish them. We could be The Punisher!”

Matt shook the voice off, before focusing back on the contract. Realising that he was being offered freedom and a closeness to Fisk’s business, as well as an escape from Kilgrave’s taunting lingering voice clawing away at the back of his mind.

“Yes.” He stated, reluctantly. Guilt informed his shaky voice, as he felt some familiarity to his acceptance of Kilgrave’s offer. A daunting dread loomed over him, signing his soul over to the devil once again.

***

For all the familiarity which Matt’s apartment bore, it felt alien in every respect. The bed felt comfortable, the toilet wasn’t dingy. It had a wooden smell lingering in the air, whilst neighbours around him went about their day, unaware his ears caught onto their sounds.

Wandering through his doorway, assisted by an eager Foggy, who was more than relieved to have his best friend home, Matt’s nose caught the smell of Kilgrave’s cologne ingrained in the floorboards. His bedsheets tainted, despite the clear best efforts to rid of the smell.

Ignoring it, Matt continued through. Echoing throughout the apartment, his footsteps declared his arrival. The creaking below him reminded him of his time before he was carted off to prison, whilst the glare the billboard opposite his window somewhat reminded him of the window and it’s piercing sunlight opposite his cell.

“That’s everything – not that there was much anyway…” Foggy sighed, dropping down a small suitcase of Matt’s few belongings he brought back. Glancing around, Foggy assured everything was in order – suspecting Matt’s superpowers could sense the slightest incorrect placement. Turning his attention back to Matt, he let out a quiet sigh of relief. “I’m happy you’re out, Matt. I don’t know if trusting Fisk is worth the risk, but you’re out at least.”

“After everything that’s happened, I don’t think I care what Fisk does anymore.” Matt admitted, defeated as he slumped back down onto his leather couch. “Not to mention, Karen going ‘Jessica Jones’ means she’s at least not thinking about Union Allied at the moment.”

“I’ve been thinking about how everything changed when we met Karen.” Foggy started, as he sat beside Matt. His voice was skeptical and intrigued, before continuing. “In less than a week after we took on her case, Kilgrave showed up. And I just keep thinking… what would’ve happened if he didn’t?”

“I probably would have bled in some dumpster, unless somebody found me. Even then, I’d have been arrested or found by the Russians eventually.”

“You can’t seriously believe that Kilgrave was your only option that night.” Foggy scoffed at the idea, letting out a heavy sigh. The notion of Matt dying was heavy on his heart, terrifying to consider. “Knowing your luck with the ladies, some cute nurse would’ve found you and you’d charm her into silence.” Foggy laughed, followed by a gentler chuckle from Matt who considered the idea.

“A Night Nurse.” Remarked Matt, feeling normality resume around him once again. As a quietness settled between them, noise only fulfilled by the cars and people beyond the walls, Matt shook his head. He’d accepted a dastardly truth some time ago. “I think, for as long as Kilgrave was around, somebody would’ve gotten hurt. The Devil is bound to make our lives hell.”

“I feel bad, because out of everything I was lucky enough to get a nice job, a nice girlfriend…” Foggy now glimpsed back on his time since Kilgrave arrived. The discovery of his best friends’ powers, his rekindled relationship with Marci, their work at Hogarth & Chao & Benewitz. Guilt resided in his heart as he considered the prospect he had benefitted from the dismay of his best friend. “But we’ll get everything back on track for you. And when Jessica returns home, everything will be okay for Karen.”

Matt pushed himself from his seat and wandered across the room. He knelt down and pulled aside a carpet, hooking his finger through a piece of the floorboard, to reveal a discreet hatch resting beneath. Inside was very few things of importance – though a black suit, and mask, and hand wraps were accompanied by a small metal rod.

Drawing the chest out, he pushed it towards Foggy and shut the hatch back up. He listened carefully as Foggy investigated the chest, rifling through the almost-relics of Matt’s night-time vigilantism. The clothes were stained with blood, which Matt could distinctly smelt despite the fact they were now patches of dry stains.

“Once I’m done with protecting Vanessa, it’s over. The suit, the powers – whatever. I can’t do it anymore.” Matt vowed, determined to end his vigilantism. In his mind, he found himself assured by the notion of ending his involvement. Resuming normality, rejecting the oddity of his former nightlife.

“It’s a shame…” Foggy commented quietly, “From what I’ve seen, you were good at it all.”

***

Only a day or two had passed for Matt, as he adjusted to normality before his employment as a full-time bodyguard when a knock arrived at his door. Panic settled in his heart as he paused, halted mid-pouring of a glass of water. He sniffed the air in case he caught a whiff of a familiar cologne, but all he could catch was a new scent. There was one pounding heartbeat, and new clanging of metal, except a small clattering of a necklace.

Putting the glass down, Matt apprehensively approached the door. Wandering around the thin singular wall piece, which separated the corridor from the kitchen, Matt focused on everything around him. Every heartbeat, every smell, every car horn, every footstep. Paranoia had controlled him, programmed his mind to doubt everything. He second guessed every detail of the world.

Such anxiety had led to his confusion, as he heard the woman call through the door.

“Matt? I’m not sure if you remember me, but it’s Skye Johnson – from Saint Agnes.” Matt’s mind was cast back a few years prior, having met a girl in his orphanage soon before leaving. He remembered the close bond they have, and he recalled sensing something in her – something he couldn’t quite explain, nor make sense of.

Scanning the area for a moment, Matt waited. He needed to make sure he was avoiding a trap – considering Kilgrave was smart and tactical, using everything he could as a weapon.

Finally certain it was safe, Matt seized his cane and opened the door. Staring across towards him was Skye, who had a familiar scent about her now that he recalled her.

“Sorry, Skye, I wasn’t expecting anybody. But come in.” Matt smiled as he gestured her in. His ears listened to her footsteps, hearing the slight smack of her lips as her smile changed to an awkward quick jump inside. Shutting the door behind them Matt lead her through into the living room, asking if she wanted a glass of water or coffee.

“Just some water, please. And don’t apologise. I’ve turned up unexpectedly. I just heard you were back and wanted to check in on you.” Matt could hear a slight flurry of her heartbeat, indicating some ulterior motive which didn’t stray too far from what she had said. “Oh, by the way, it’s Daisy now.”

“What is?” Matt asked, his hands searching for a glass, as to keep up the façade he was less capable than he was. His old friend leapt across the room to help. Although Matt was capable of sensing heartbeat through walls and dodging bullets by the sound of their ricochets through the air, he still had to keep up the pretence that his lack of vision impaired him as significantly as it was expected. “Oh, your name? What happened to Skye?”

“It’s kind of a long story – but let’s just say I found my mom and dad. Things didn’t go well, but I found them.” Matt smiled back towards her, envious of the chance to be reunited with ones parents again. He congratulated her, not exactly wanting to pry into the details of the situation. Though after a moment of quiet settled between them, and they each slumped down upon the leather couch, Matt noticed her heartbeat beginning to pound in her chest. A nervousness overcame her, as words simmered on the tip of her tongue.

“Everything okay?” Matt wondered, pretending to be responding to the silence, as opposed to the pounding of her heart.

“Not really.” She admitted, with some relief overcoming her as she did so. “I thought this’d be easy. Drop in, make you an offer and run out. But there’s so much to explain to you…” With a heavier sigh, she glanced back towards Matt and placed down her glass of water. She finished her gulp and waited for the right words to form in her mind. “You know how we have Captain America and Hulk as like, heroes with powers gifted to them? Well, imagine people who have powers coded into their DNA.”

“Like mutants?”

“Kind of, but their powers are revealed after exposed to a mist from a mineral called Terrigen.”

“I’ll be honest, I did my fair share of science classes at college, but this doesn’t sound accurate.”

“Matt, my mom led enhanced individuals – Inhumans – to attack SHIELD. And since then, Inhumans have been appearing around the world, all with disastrous consequences.”

“SHIELD?” Matt retorted, ignoring the rest for a moment. “Wait, how do you know any of this?” He could now hear Daisy’s heart beating harder. With such strength and might, fear coursing through her veins, it might as well have burst from her chest along with an admission of guilt.

“I- I work for them.” She finally let out, a hefty weight lifting of her chest. “And I came to recruit you – because I remember you did impressive things back when we were kids, and the whole ‘Masked Vigilante’ thing?”

“I wasn’t exposed to some mist, Sk- Daisy. I was in an accident when I was a kid. I was blinded by acid. I’m not an ‘inhuman’.”

“But I am, Matt.” Daisy stated, her heart calming for a moment as she expelled the truth. With a hefty sigh, her head swivelled towards the glass upon the table. Taking a swig of the remaining water, she placed it back down upon the table and glanced back to her old friend. “Do you like that glass?” She asked, patiently waiting for a response from Matt.

“I don’t really have any pref-” before he could finish his words, Matt’s ears caught the sound of immense rippling of sound waves. Propulsion generated from Daisy’s hands, air weaponised by sound. He felt the room tremble slightly, a quake almost, before it hurtled towards the glass. Piercing his eardrums, the trembling sound was unbearable, though only lasted for a few moments before the glass shattered -  a few seconds prior to it’s remnants smashing against the ground.

“What was that?” Matt asked, his hands clasped against his ears, listening out for Daisy’s voice specifically. As the ringing in his ears settled, he tilted his head in her direction, noticing a smacking of her lips as she smiled.

“My powers. I can generate a sort of sonic force, because I’m an Inhuman. And I don’t think you are, but you have powers. Powers that can help us against whatever is happening. Fight against HYDRA.”

Matt scoffed at her, outright perplexed by her proposition. “I’m giving that life up. Once I finish this job for Fisk – it’s over. It’s broken me. Destroyed everything I had. You should consider letting it go too, Daisy. For your own sake.”

“The world needs us. People to protect it.”

“But we’re the ones who make it need protecting. Kilgrave wouldn’t have been as dangerous had he not met me. Sokovia would still be in the ground if Tony Stark didn’t build robots. I’m hanging up the cowl, because if I don’t then it’s only a matter of time until the next guy gets a more dangerous plan.”

Defeated, Daisy stared back at Matt. Although she wanted to reject his statement, she felt herself agreeing with him. The idea made sense to her, as she considered that intervention had only propagated the damning situations they often found themselves in. Staring back, she paused and considered something else, though nothing seemed to come to mind.

“Just consider it.” She finally commented, clinging onto hope he would understand her perspective. She handed him a small device, it was small and metallic, disclike with one button as a function. “Call us, if you ever need our help – or if you change your mind.”

***

Although Matthew Murdock found himself an olive branch extended towards him, with the offering of the assistance of a high-tech and superpowered organisation, he found himself not yet taking it. Instead, he pursued his efforts in pleasing Wilson Fisk. Protecting Fisk’s beloved Vanessa. Standing guard at day and night, waiting patiently for any threat against her.

***

As the days followed Matt’s meeting with Daisy, he found that they faded from his mind. Though he was familiar with the darkness, the complete blackout of all memories he had in the past few days was less than usual in any capacity.

Waking up, bleeding and bruised in a hospital bed, the unsettling sounds of the facility and its medicinal scent to it, all but added to his confusion. He awoke, Foggy and Karen by his side, clutching onto either hand, whilst a nurse lingered in the corner of the room. By the unsettled nervous breathing shared by Karen and Foggy, which calmed slightly as he awoke, he could tell something unusual had happened.

“Thanks, Claire.” Foggy spoke to the nurse, watching as she left the hospital room. As she did so, she handed a brown envelope to Foggy.

Unbeknownst to them all, it was a paycheque and a letter of gratitude figuratively written in blood.

Chapter Text

Changing the tide of fate in a universe brings about alliances never once conceived of in the imagination of those who experienced their world in a linear path. As an onlooker in the Multiverse, seeing two enemies form a friendship is not unusual. Witnessing two people, never originally destined to cross paths, change the world is inspiring, is only to be expected.

In this universe, when the nexus event happened on that fatal cold, winter night, Kilgrave collided the worlds of two people unexpectedly. Jessica Jones and Matt Murdock would meet in your timeline, but the circumstances were never so interconnected. Their origins as the Defenders were never so integrated and degraded – in this universe, however, there is doubt if they will even become those Defenders called upon when the Hand pressed on.

***

Trish had wracked her brain trying to find Kilgrave. Money had been blown on extra, tighter security, more surveillance, even trips to places Kilgrave had been allegedly sighted. But alas, she found herself empty-handed.

As the bright days of April drew to a close, and the dawning of May arose, Trish found herself prepared to do just about anything. Desperation whispered in her ears, as she pleaded for whatever power controlled their lives and world to give her good news. All she wanted was to hold her sister in a warm embrace, and know that Kilgrave was six feet under, where he belonged.

Perhaps there was a cruel irony in the twist of fate in those final days of April. As Trish continued her paranoid routine of checking her surveillance, a pattering of footsteps and tapping of a stick sounded from outside her door, playing through the camera feed inputted into her doorbell.

Jolting towards the nearest screen, her eyes laid upon an elderly man with crazed hair, which stood on edge, and small black, rectangular glasses which hid his cloudy white eyes. His age was telling by the wrinkles lined across his face, though he was also clearly scarred by conflict and fight in his life. He wore a rugged jacket and tapped a white and red stick against the hallway, before he approached Trish’s door.

His hand raised towards the doorbell, his finger searching for the button for a moment, before satisfied by the noise inside, drowned out by the hefty door between them.

“Sorry, I think you might have the wrong house. I’m not expecting anybody tonight.” Trish spoke over the intercom nervously, though ensuring her voice carried a façade of certainty. She didn’t want to let slip she was terrified of the stranger who approached her door as the sun settled across the landscape of New York.

“I know it might look like I get lost a lot, but I’m actually here to meet you Miss Walker.” The man spoke calmly, though as he uttered the words, it was abundantly clear he was much more of a brash and tougher guy, merely playing the façade of an old helpless man.

“Why?”

“You might think you’re searching for the Devil, but he isn’t the one in control here. There are others helping him. The Devil of Hell’s Kitchen is a pawn in their plan, but I believe we can help each other.” He paused for a moment, sensing even over the silent radio, Trish’s understandable disbelief. “My name is Stick, I trained Matthew Murdock – there’s more at hand here than a man with impossible powers.” Despite the implausibility of the man’s words, Trish felt herself become convinced. Aliens and superheroes were nothing new, but the honesty he showed, and the exploration of a new lead during the Kilgrave debacle was refreshing to say the least.

Stick listened as the intercom fell silent. Patiently waiting, he waited for Trish to interrogate him further. Yet, to his complete surprise, and Trish’s too to an extent, the door drew open. A variety of locks clicked out of place before Trish set eyes on the man, but she sensed an honesty in his words.

Stood in the lavish corridor, Stick tilted his head towards her direction. He listened to her breathing, the rumbling of the elevator and the beeping of the unlocked door, before her voice captured his attention.

“Come inside.” She accepted, welcoming him in. Assisting him slightly, though trying her best to not be condescending as she did so, Trish led him through into her living room. She locked the door behind them, and seated him on the comfortable couches that littered the room. Wandering over towards the sink, she poured them both a glass of water, before placing it down on the coffee table in front of them both. “What do you know about Kilgrave?”

“First, I should say I don’t give a shit about Kilgrave.” Stick stated bluntly, a dry cynicism in his voice, leaving Trish silent for a brief moment. “I have been fighting a war against the people who saved Kilgrave, and now he is helping them complete their goals. A man who can command without question is a threat to anybody.”

“You’re looking for the ninjas?” Trish wondered, a doubt in her voice as she considered not taking the man seriously at all. Although, as she responded, she found the man shot his head towards her. His attention fixed on her unserious reply to his indication to the larger picture.

“I’m looking for the Hand.”

“And who are they?”

Stick sighed heavily, shaking his head before continuing. “A long time ago, there were five individuals who were cast out from K’un-Lun-”

“K’un Lun?”

“Are you going to keep interrupting me? Yes, K’un-Lun. A secret city, guarded over by the Iron Fist. They were banished for their desire to become immortal. The elders were concerned for their strive for power, never to face death and regenerate for eternity. Now, their weapon, their first step to fully consolidating immortality, is an entity known as the Black Sky. Kilgrave assisted the Black Sky’s arrival, but now they’ve realised their Black Sky isn’t trained enough yet. It won’t fulfil their goal.”

“I think I’m following here,” Trish muttered to herself, before peering her head towards the old man. “What kind of ‘entity’? Alien entity? Like the ones that attacked New York or something?”

“No. Something worse. The Black Sky appears normal, but if you pay attention – focus your senses, you can tell it’s not. The one they brought to New York was a child. They killed it, brought it back to life, and now they’re trying to teach it tricks.”

“By your tone, I assume that’s working then.” Trish interjected, filling the silence that distilled between them for a moment.

“You ever tried training a kid to become a warrior?” Stick shot back frustrated. “It’s pointless. First of all, they’re weak. You have to wait years for it to become anything worthy. And then second, you have to ensure it doesn’t attach to you. That’s not one of their concerns, but it’s possible.”

Trish could tell the elderly man spoke with some experience. Her eyes examined his face, though it’s stern fixture, and the fact it was covered by black glasses, made her job considerably harder. Nonetheless, she was able to put two things he mentioned together and decipher more about the cryptic and strange man.

“I suppose that explains why Matt became the kind of lawyer who helped people.” Trish replied carefully, analysing Stick’s expression as she did so.

“Matty had too gold a heart.” Stick’s stern face and voice was fractured slightly be an essence of sentiment. An echo of compassion buried beneath decades of stone-cold fury. “Are you going to pass that glass of water, or let a blind man die of thirst?” He interrupted the growing silence between them with a spark of frustration. He listened as Trish apologised and launched towards the coffee table, clasping onto the glass and handing it over towards him.

“So, they’re looking for a better candidate to be the Black Sky?” Trish asked, her mind trying to wrap around what he’d explained. “Surely that’s easy? They could just kidnap an already good fighter, right?”

“The woman they want is already a good fighter, but she doesn’t know they’re after her. Not yet.” Stick’s vague ambiguity struck a moment of fear into Trish’s face, flushing pale as she considered what he could mean. After all, since she lost Jessica, she had been training to fight better, and her trainer had complimented her form and progression. Although, as Stick heard her gasp, he shook his head. “Not you, Miss. Walker.”

“Oh,” There was a riff of disappointment in her voice, overriding the relief she simultaneously felt. Stick handed her the glass of water to put back down for him, and she quickly obliged. “Who is then?”

“That doesn’t matter yet.” He stated bluntly, and harshly. Protective of the identity of the woman, he leaned in towards Trish. “What matters is your part in this fight. You want to find Kilgrave to reach your sister – I want to find Kilgrave to disarm the Hand. Like a lunar eclipse, our goals unexpectedly align right now.”

“So, you want to help each other?”

“Even though you were unaware of this fight, you have an important stake in it. I want to train you, so that we can defeat Kilgrave and go on our separate ways.” Stick’s proposition was unexpected to say the least. Despite the slight disappointment she had felt moments prior, as she had realised she wasn’t the Black Sky, she now felt a weight of importance thrust upon her.

Stick’s proposal was more than simply training, and more than just saving her sister, but it was an invitation into something larger. She was being made aware of a conflict, as old as these long-living members of the Hand. In some respects, it was a privilege, whilst in others it was startling.

***

Over the course of the next month, Trish had seemingly become far more of a recluse. She rarely answered her phone, responded to emails, she never even seemed to answer her door. The only evidence anybody had that she was safe were the reports of a strange old guy, carrying martial arts equipment into her penthouse every day.

It had become a regular event, every day a blind old man would clack a stick against the ground of the tower of apartments. The employees would politely hold the door open, respecting the security pass Trish gave him, before he would wait patiently at the door for Trish to answer. Their regular meetings would lead him into the spare room, which had been kitted out for their training.

Over the course of the month, Trish had little doubt that Stick was a harsh trainer to Matt, and could only imagine the pressures he’d put onto the boy. Perhaps it explained why Matt turned out the way he did, though a million other factors likely shaped Matt too.

That train of thought led Trish to wonder about how she had formed as a person herself. How Jessica’s life had shaped her. Life had battered them both so much, to an extent she felt jealous of Jessica sometimes for her powers, but then considered the sacrifice made for said powers.

“To become a good solider,” Stick stated, wandering around the room, as Trish rested on the floor bruised slightly from a rough bombardment of tricks hidden up Stick’s sleeve. “You need to cut ties with everything. This apartment is filled with bullshit. Materialistic shit.”

“I worked hard to get where I am.”

“I’m sure you did. Being a TV star must have been incredibly difficult. Whilst kids like Matt lost his sight and father, or Jessica losing her whole family, you starring on TV must’ve been the worst thing in the world.” Stick sarcastically seared an old wound that had barely healed. He could sense in her defensive voice she was protective, cautious and fearful of something rooted in those early days.

“You don’t know half the shit those bastards did.” Trish bitterly spat back, pushing to her feet. “Half the shit my mother did.”

“Let me guess, she wanted what was best for you, but you disagreed with that. Your privileged ass couldn’t see what a loving and wealthy home did for you.” His ears tuned into the sound of her movement, listening as she pushed herself to her feet. Stumbling around for a moment, her eyes fixed on Stick with a bristling anger. “You took everything for granted. The privileged little girl who achieved her dreams, resenting her mother for caring.”

Stick dodged the first swing of her fist, smirking slightly as he did so. He seized her wrist and flipped her around him, almost wrapping her around his body before slamming her to the ground. “Control your anger. Let it power your swing, don’t let it control you.”

“Well, if you weren’t being such an asshol-”

“Our enemies in this war won’t hold back. They’ll do worse than dig into your bullshit childhood trauma. They’ll gut you. Decapitate you. Torture you. Kill everybody you love. The Hand only care about one thing.”

“And that is?” Trish uttered through her heavy panting, her eyes fixed on him as she winced through the pain which surged through her spine.

“Themselves.” Stick bluntly replied, wandering towards a satchel and throwing it over his shoulder. He zipped up the bag and fixed the black rectangular glasses to his faces, before staring in Trish’s direction. “If we’re going to win this, cut all this shit out of your life first. The luxuries, your loved ones, your expensive vegetarian meals. Soldiers only need all of that after a war, not before.”

“I’m not a soldier.” Trish exclaimed as she pushed herself to her feet. “I’m helping you in this fight, but I’m not like Matt.”

“But you want to be.” Stick replied bluntly. “Some people in this world are lucky enough to get powers, and you’re jealous that it was Jessica who got them instead of you. You’ve been good in your training so far, but only because you want to feel powerful. To feel gifted. You want to be a soldier, but you don’t have the balls to become one.”

“You really expect to train people when you treat them like shit?” Trish rebutted, watching as he edged towards the door.

“Eventually, they realise why. They might not like it, but they understand it. So will you.” Stick nodded his head, before pulling open the door. He paused in the doorway, and tilted his head in cautious hearing, before turning back to Trish. “See you tomorrow – I hope your mother coming round helps you cut her out.”

Trish gathered to her feet, and watched as Stick found his way towards the door. She followed him curiously, peering towards a small screen which displayed the footage captured by the camera in her doorbell. As it switched on, she watched as Dorothy clambered towards the door, heaving a heft bag towards it. Instinctively, Trish went to seize Stick, hoping to prevent him from exposing the fact she was indoors, but instead she was too late.

Stood at the door was her mother, Dorothy. She stood in expensive, specifically picked clothing with a definitive concern for how others would see her. Deliberately dressed to impress, and flash the cash she had made from her daughter’s success, she was the epitome of everything Trish had grown to hate in the industry she’d grumbled on through.

At first, Dorothy leapt to greet her daughter, but back way confused and cautious as Stick wandered out. She couldn’t quite tell if the small whack of his stick against her leg was intentional, but wanting to avoid being given that blame, she remained silent. Affording the luxury of sight, she fixed her eyes on him. Stick could tell of course, but Dorothy felt free of judgement as she did so.

Trish welcomed her mother in, saying goodbye to Stick and hurriedly shutting the door behind her. She wanted to avoid letting Dorothy say anything, since ti was clearly sitting on the precipice of her tongue.

“Who the hell was that?” Dorothy exclaimed. “I have had to do some unpleasant things to remain where I am bu-”

“Mom!” Yelled Trish, both angrily and disgusted, spinning back around to face the woman as she edged into her living room.

“Nobody has heard from you in weeks, Trish. The station has officially terminated your contract, and I’ve had journalist after journalist wanting to know what’s spurred your sudden disappearance. You’re lucky that whole bloody caravan scene in England dried up.” Dorothy matched her daughter's rage as she shouted back, watching as Trish winced slightly, trying to usher away the brewing frustration in her mind. “And now you’re waving out a weird old blind guy, who smells exactly how he looks.”

“I’ve been training, mother!” Trish slammed her hand down against the kitchen counter, shooting a furious look towards Dorothy. The woman paused, stared perplexed for a moment, but not having a moment to follow up her growing questions as Trish continued. “Jessica is out there. I know you don’t care, you’ve made that clear. But I do. That man – Stick – is helping me. And I’m helping him.”

“Helping him how, exactly?” Dorothy spoke cautiously, her trailing voice indicating the exact thing she’d held in her mind since she saw the elderly man wander out the door. Her eyes jolted down towards Trish’s body, noticing bruises and cuts. “Oh my god… is he beating you too?”

“My god!” Screamed Trish. “Not everybody is like you! I just want to find Jess.”

“You can’t drop your life for her. We’ve gone over this before!”

“Jess is in danger. The man she is with is involved in something far worse, and if I don’t get her out of there, her life could be at stake. Do you understand that, mother? Caring about somebody else, instead of putting yourself and your intentions and desires first?”

“That’s not fair, I’ve done everything I can to make your life better!” Dorothy barked back. Her words exactly echoing Stick’s sentiment, his mockery of her disillusion. Trish froze, her rage fizzled from her mind and her face flushed pale with a realisation. She had resented Dorothy for everything she had done, condoning the acts that had traumatised Trish. But now she stared back towards a broken woman, who plastered over her own issues with some sort of false noble narrative of bettering her daughter’s life.

After all of the brewing rage, Trish felt as much admiration for Dororhty as she did resentment. Some part of her acknowledged the shattered life Dorothy had led, the alcohol, the men, the forcing her into fame was all a shameful attempt to cover the fractures in her own life. It was that admiration, for Dorothy to strive through it all, and able to pass through everyday without that trauma and pain beating her down, that Stick needed her to rid of.

“I know.” Trish admitted sombrely. “But you do know that a lot of what’s happened, both because of you and allowed by you, has fucked me over. Fucked Jess over too.” Now, as she spoke, there wasn’t rage in her voice. It wasn’t even anger or resentment, it was honestly. It wasn’t blasted by a yelling voice, but uttered by an accepting and calm tone.

Dorothy glanced back, slightly taken aback by the absence of yelling or arguing. In some capacity, she considered her own victory in the argument, but now hearing Trish fall to accept something which broke her heart, she fell to a realisation.

“I-” That was all that escaped her as her eyes swelled with tears. She was faced with brutal honesty, a truth she had avoided. It was now slammed right in front of her, completely immovable. “I’m sorry.” She ushered the words out of her mouth, almost compulsively wanting those words stated. “I never-”

“Don’t worry.” Trish replied, interjecting before Dorothy went on a tirade about love and care. “Maybe just leave. I’ll call you when I’m ready. But don’t worry about Stick, there’s nothing going on there.”

Dorothy dared to utter another word, stunted as she stared back to her daughter. She gestured for a hug, which Trish reluctantly accepted, before watching as she wandered towards the corridor. Trish didn’t follow her to say goodbye, nor did she even shout it. Instead, she just stood frozen in the corridor, feeling somewhat free from the resentment and compassion towards Dorothy. Somewhat proud.

***

If the theory that dreams are merely windows into alternate universes is true, then one must consider the painful fact that Trish peered into universes where Jessica was safe.

Perhaps, she saw into your very own universe, where Jessica Jones snapped Kilgrave’s neck at the docks. Where she went on to be reunited with her mother, and face off against a twisted serial killer. Perhaps, even, a universe where Jessica Jones never lost her family. Or one where Kilgrave was never experimented on. The multiverse has happier stories, but Trish was forced to live a painful one.

Chapter Text

The diverging nature of this universe continues further, infecting and diverting. Change spreads across the reality, combining worlds unlikely to meet, and pressing them to new extremes. As Trish Walker trained with Stick, a strange and almost cryptic man from Matthew Murdock’s past, she approached a new stage in this universe. One unprecedented across the multiverse.

***

It had been little less than a week by the time Trish was visited by somebody other than Stick. Now, she spent most of her time alone or with Stick, constantly pushing herself to her extremes physically. Her apartment had been purged of its luxuries, her cupboards stripped bare. In the end, it looked a bleak and miserable sight, with the sunlight cascading through the cloudy skies only granting some brightness to Trish’s apartment.

However, as her meditation was interrupted, she darted towards the intercom and found Karen stood opposite the door. Split across her face was eagerness and nervousness, as she waited with anticipation to see Trish. Wrapped over her shoulder was a handbag, and she promptly wrapped a few stray blonde hairs back around her ear.

Without a word spoken between them, Karen darted through the door once it opened. Her eyes glanced around confused at the naked walls and the absence of furniture, though she took little time to address it. Instead, as he clacking shoes echoed through the empty apartment, hitting the wood-panelled flooring, she swung her bag onto the kitchen counter and retrieved a folder. This transparent folder contained a small stash of papers, which her trembling hands ravaged out and hurriedly handed it towards Trish.

 “This morning, a harbour in Greece reported that Kilgrave had been there. Three staff drowned themselves, while five others were ordered to secrecy. They didn’t speak a word of six whole days, until it wore off.”

“Six days ago?” Trish paused, her mind cycling through everything Stick had told her through their training. Although, as she did so, she found no such luck. Nothing appeared relevant, and her attention was promptly drawn towards other aspects of her statement. “Wait, six days? I thought his powers only lasted twelve hours?”

“He’s getting more and more powerful. It doesn’t help he leaves no evidence, not a single shred of evidence. And nobody is really making the connection. He’s just ‘man in purple suit’.”

“Even if he did leave evidence, it’s not like we could do anything.” Trish spoke, pessimistically letting out a deep and heavy sigh, relieving some guilt as she did so.

“He’s been jumping from country to country. He goes in, creates a stir then leaves. I don’t know if he’s running away, or if he’s looking for something.” Karen continued, rifling through the file and clasping onto a variety of other reports and articles about Kilgrave sightings, none of which were useful in the end. Now, however, her eyes glanced upwards and caught sight of a guilt toning Trish’s eyes. Something teetered on the edge of her tongue, and lined her eyes, but she dared not speak. She waited for a moment, silence brewing between them, before Karen interjected. “Do you know what he’s searching for?”

Trish at first attempted to deny it. Refuse any knowledge, but it was clearly pointless. With a deep sigh, she accepted the guilt. Her hand wiped down her face, before her eyes fixed on Karen’s. “He’s looking for a woman.” She admitted bluntly, provoking a quiet and confused response from Karen, which she had expected. “The people who helped him escape, they need a weapon. There’s a woman out there, who is the perfect vessel for what they want.”

“What are you talking about?” Karen replied, now searching through her articles for any mention of women being kidnapped or targeted as though they were being sought out. Though nothing in her research had indicated that at all, now perplexing her as she glared back towards the woman. “Do you know something? We’ve supposed to be helping each other on this.”

“I met a man- no, no. He’s like this old guy, Stick, who’s been involved in a group, fighting another group called the Hand. It’s a long story – but he’s been training me, to help when Kilgrave returns.”

“But you’ve been training for like, a month…” Karen uttered to herself. “You knew that Kilgrave was going to return – you’ve been training for it. And you haven’t said a word?”

“I thought it best to wait it out, until I know more!” Lies informed her words, as she knew perfectly well why she had kept it secret. In the state that Karen had found herself in, the last thing Trish wanted was to bring new attention to it. She still hoped that Karen would leave the case alone, even before she knew about Kilgrave and the Hand. Although, she also feared for Karen getting involved, wanting to limit what she knew and spread about the Hand and their involvement. “The Hand is dangerous, Karen. More dangerous than Kilgrave.”

“I’ve been so stressed following every case, and you’ve known more than me all along? Who helped Kilgrave? When is he coming back? Where’s Jessica?” Firing questions at Trish, Karen fell quiet as she realised that Karen had little intention of answering them for her. Their eyes met with a sombre glance exchanged between them, whilst Trish breathed deeply.

“Jess is with him. But, Karen, this isn’t your fight. It’s barely mine.”

“Bullshit.” Karen shouted, slamming down the folder as her eyes darted around the bland and empty apartment. “You’ve committed to whatever this Stick guy is training you for.”

“I’m trying to find my sister!” Trish shouted back frustrated, now more offended than anything. “And if training with Stick is the easiest way to guarantee Jess’ safety, than god knows I’ll do it. Hell, I’d give up all of this for that small chance.”

“You just want to feel powerful.” Karen shook her head dismissively.

“And you just want to pretend you’re not you.” Trish spoke without thinking, her eyes stared up and down Karen with disapproval.

Karen sighed. She fell silent, not quite sure what to say, before she shook her head. A tear lined her cheek, wetting its path as it descended, before splashing against the counter. “Good luck with dealing with Kilgrave.” Slamming the file of papers down on the counter, Karen didn’t say another word. Instead, she headed directly towards the door and slammed it behind herself.

Trish stood frozen. Part of her felt guilt, of course, but another part of her felt relief. A burden had been lifted from her shoulders, as now Karen finally knew the truth about Jessica and Kilgrave. She didn’t expect Karen to understand, but it was now one less thing weighing on her mind.

The freedom from that worry jolted her into action, spending little time deliberating how she’d resolve the situation. Instead, she took the new surge of adrenaline into her training room. With a variety of equipment firmly scattered around, it appeared to be the last remaining room decorated to an extent.

***

Much time had passed since Trish had heard Karen’s slamming of her door, and felt it’s trembling of the apartment. Although, as time continued to wash over her with it’s brazen passing, that moment lost its significance. It blended together with every other moment, lost it’s colour in the general mixed array of brown as the colours of memory lost importance altogether.

Instead, her days became dedicated to the fight. Day in, day out. Every waking moment was focused on honing her skills and physical prowess. Perfecting her senses, building herself to be a soldier in this war she barely understood.

Daily she saw Stick, with minutes transforming into hours which transformed into days and months. Every waking moment engulfed by the obsession. The niggling voice which echoed in her mind, urging her to continue – one day she’d see the end. One day she’d hold Jessica in her arms and the time she spent beaten to a pulp would be worth it.

In all the months she had been training, the moment never appeared to arrive. The Hand had fallen quiet and, without Karen’s constant feed of updates on Kilgrave, Trish had little knowledge of what had been happening with the man.

Regardless, she drove herself forward. Driven by a motor of terrified hope and optimistic fear.

Little of her attention was driven anywhere but her training. She didn’t care that Matt Murdock and continued working for Wilson Fisk, with a present drive against Fisk’s enemies. She didn’t quite care that Karen was still dwelling in Jessica’s home, whilst Luke Cage and Jessica’s neighbour Malcolm still assisted her blind pursuit for Jessica.

Instead, she focused on the dingy walls of her downgraded apartment. With her luxuries sold, she now resided in a compact room. Brown and unpainted plaster walls, all with an unmade bed and a red, pristine punching bag hanging from the ceiling. It’s chains clinked with each frightful punch made by Trish, although she found herself often using parks and random muggings to exercise her abilities.

This day, September 29^th, was different. It began like any other. Breakfast was simple, dry and unremarkable. Untethered to the luxuries of all those cereals and spreads and sugars. Following that was her usual routine of exercises, which almost made the compact apartment the grounds of a self-induced military operation.

Trish remarked the time when the doorbell had been rung. Stick had arrived late by eighteen minutes, which was unusual for the man. In fact, despite his condition of blindness, Stick was renowned to her for his meticulous adherence to time. Now, as the clock hit 12:48, she let out a bellowing laugh.

“I’m holding you to this you know, Stick! Eighteen whole minutes!” Although she had rarely found humour in the months she had dedicated to training, she did seize this very opportunity to laugh at the face of dwelling fear and terror. Except, such relishing in the moment had vanished.

Her eyes fell upon Stick, who, although usually looking miserable, looked different. Somehow deeper in thought and disturbed by the world. His head reared up towards Trish, who had frozen in her tracks as she looked at him.

With instinct, she moved out of the way for him, gracing him almost like a servant would a superior. Her eyes fixed on Stick, who wandered inside and plunked himself on the end of the bed – which remained untidy as it sat dead-centre of the room.

Despite the man’s familiarity with the home, there was no comfort in his action. Instead, he reared his head back up to Trish and simply nodded his head. She watched suspiciously, dropping herself behind him.

“Today is the day.” He stated calmly, sombrely, with a secret hint of fear toning the outskirts of his voice. Her eyes met his face with an array of emotions that would be difficult to translate into succinct words. It is remarkable in how the emotions of a person can blend together, spread across a canvas of the mind, with each emotion drawn into one blended array of paintbrush streaks. “They’re going to arrive tonight. The Hudson Ferry Terminal.”

Trish’s face was now painted with more confusion, as she interjected the sombre, bristling silence. “What’s the problem there? Jessica is coming back! We can follow where they go – how they’re going to find that Elektra woman.”

Stick merely chuckled. A simple few sounds echoed from his mouth as his body jolted with the humour he had found. “That’s the problem. Kilgrave is on board and Elektra is back in Hell’s Kitchen.” He grumbled something incoherent, before focusing his attention towards Trish. “Something’s pulling us towards tonight, Trish. I can feel it. Fate, or destiny, or some kind of damn force. I’ve never believed in any being more powerful than us, but it’s only wise to consider one now as we approach this damn night.”

“Ignore that.” Trish instructed bluntly. “You’re at your best when you’re cynical, not when you’re like this.” She clambered to her feet before peering down at the elderly man.

Chapter Text

Time has it’s ways to catch up with anybody. Some events, even across realities, still bleed into existence. In your universe, the early days of November 2015 was when Matthew Murdock was visited by Elektra Natchios. In this universe, those converging points of time still appear to hold together – and all of it moves one step closer to the great aftermath.

***

Stumbling through his door, Matt Murdock gasped for breath. Pounding in his chest was an immense powerful surge of adrenaline, shooting through his heart. Sweat dripped from his forehead, whilst his skin perspired from the endless activity of the night. Exhaustion was drawing his body into near collapse, as he staggered to his kitchen.

His clothes ripped off, Matt wore nothing but a modest pair of underwear, feeling the tingling cold of the apartment as he clasped onto the handle of the fridge and felt the breeze of the cold air smack him across the face. Radiating with nothing but freezing temperatures, the fridge was packed with an array of smells and lingering flavours, though the sensation of hunger was blotted out from Matt’s tired mind.

“Hurry!” Cried a woman from across the apartment. Matt grinned as he turned back, hearing her heart racing too. Downing a glass of ice-cold water, he felt his body revitalised and refreshed. The world paused as his body was hit by the sharpness of the water, feeling it almost glide down his throat with razor-like edges.

Matt, like most men who had worked for Fisk, had found some benefit in doing so. Money filled his fridge and Fisk kept him out of prison. He had the freedom to live his own life, but it meant he turned a blind eye to the deeds of Wilson Fisk.

Regret and guilt lingered in the back of his mind, but he considered the long term. He waited for the opportunity to strike back at Fisk – after all, he was the cause for what happened to Karen. And a part of him blamed Fisk for the whole ordeal with…

He dared not consider that name. The name which wasn’t a name, but carried so much power and tragedy. The name shrouded in mystery, like a purple mist which corrupted everything it touched. A devil incarnate.

The devil still lingered, pulling him into darkness when Fisk called upon his violent deeds. Most nights he worked for Fisk were absent from his mind, shifted and carried away by the corrupted actions of the purple mist.

“Well, that was impressive.” Laughed a voice. Matt could place the voice from across the room, although he knew full well it was nothing but the conjuration of his own mind. The slimy English accent, with a lingering cologne from long ago that had stained Matt’s nostrils for moments like this. “Pretty girl too.”

Matt ignored the voice. He shook his head and attempted to continue his path back into the bedroom. The sliding door was left wide open, leaving the woman full view of his almost-naked body as it was cascaded in neon lights by the window.

“It’s a shame Matt. If I was here with you, we could enjoy her together…” The voice lingered in his mind. Although he merely heard the voice rattling around his mind, as a product of his imagination, he knew exactly what the disembodied voice of the devil was thinking. His mind cast back to the days of captivity, as he was kept like an animal day by day. His ears tuned to Karen’s cries. “Just… like her.”

Matt froze. He gritted his teeth and clenched his eyes and fists shut. He resisted the thought, as it provoked a sense of rage to shimmer through his body. He wanted nothing more than to let out an infuriated and terrified cry, but he knew best not to disturb the woman draped only in his bedcovers.

He’d encountered enough women terrified of angry men.

“I… uh… I think it’s best you leave.” Matt murmured, as she called out if he was okay. “I’m not feeling too great.”

The woman, covering herself modestly for a slither of warmth, ran towards Matt cautiously and confused. Worry ran over her, feeling a sense of urgency. Partially, her concern was driven by an assumption that Matt was disadvantaged by his sight, which drove a sense of over-caring to settle over her. Sitting him down on the couch, he rubbed his chest and spoke softly. “What’s the matter? Do you need some more water or some painkillers or something?” She felt the scars and wounds that had healed on his chest, although Matt chuckled nervously at the delicate running of her fingers.

“No, no – Just sometimes… I get a bit…” He trailed off, not able to think of a lie quick enough. Yet, to his luck, his deceit was still convincing.

The woman grabbed her clothes and her belongings and waited by his side until a taxi arrived in time to pick her up – feeling comforted by matt’s chivalrous offer to pay for one instead of letting her walk the streets of Hell’s Kitchen alone.

Loneliness was quick to swamp him. Even if the rattling and nagging voice of the devil sat by his side.

Surrounding him was the cold air which warmed him slowly, as he sank into the couch as he remained unmoved. Swirling lights of the neon sign flooded the apartment still, while the honking of cars and shouting voices filled the streets of the city.

It had been so long since he was out there at this time. He almost missed it, yearned to return to the days he would wrap his head with a mask and stop the crimes that poisoned the city.

There was something missing in his life now. Hollow and vacant. It had been consumed by the accepted violence of Wilson Fisk, justified by a punishment of more gangs that filled the city.

*

Yet, before the nostalgia prompted him to consider returning to his old ways, he felt a sudden jolt through his body. A smell, familiar perfume, lingered from the stairwell. Breathing, quiet heartbeat, the almost-silent jangling of something metal holstered to the hip.

There was no doubting who it was, although the words spoken by the soft voice moments later only confirmed his suspicions.

“Hello, Matthew.”

“Elektra…” Matt, although having been explored thoroughly by Elektra (and vice versa), still felt an instinct to cover himself with a pillow from the couch. He panted nervously, as his attention was drawn away from the chaotic city beyond his walls, to the chaos that embodied a beautiful woman before him.

“Ooh… This is different.” Remarked the English accent.

“Do you make a habit of lounging around in your underwear nowadays?” Elektra remarked, reaching the final creaking step of the stairwell. Matt leapt to his fear and stammered for words, urging her to wait a moment.

Elektra chuckled and smirked, wandering to the fridge as she pulled out a beer. She ignored the German writing etched on the label, knowing full well it would taste horrendous, focusing her attention more on the shifting noises from the bedroom. The crumping sounds of his trousers and shirts being squeezed on in urgency amused her, as she dropped herself down into a chair.

“Fucking finally!” Yelled the voice, brimming with joy. “Something interesting happens to you Matty boy!  I can smell the adventure and thrill on her. She could make us very happy.”

Eventually, after a few frantic and panicked moments, Matt slid back open the door to his bedroom. Elektra smirked, at the whole wall sliding out of place, almost disappointed to see the clothes covering the sight she had enjoyed moments prior.

“Urgh. German beer.” She sighed, the clinking of the glass as it hit the table resonating in his ear. “Tastes like piss.”

Matt rolled his eyes as, orbiting her for a moment, with no intention of sitting down with her. “What the hell are you doing here?” He questioned, feeling a sense of de ja vu as she responded.

“You've never been hard to find. Especially since all of that business with Fisk and Kil-”

“That's not what I asked.” Matt interrupted, not wanting to hear the bare mention of that name. Elektra commented on his furniture, remarking about an old time of fun from years prior, though Matt’s interest strayed away from nostalgia. In a rather defeated and tired exhale of words, Matt questioned her again. “Why are you here?”

“Would you believe it if I said I missed you?” Elektra avoided the truth once again, although Matt’s prompt rejection of the idea provoked a gleam in her eye. “Smart man – Columbia education really paid off.”

“No thanks to you.” Matt quipped, grinning immensely as he heard a chuckle erupt from Elektra. Behind the facetious façade put up by Elektra, Matt sensed some sincerity in her response. A real amusement festered behind the simple ‘ha ha’.

Although, with all that had haunted him in recent months, the sense of sincerity lost it’s touch. He’d seen the dark side of humanity without a touch of pretence, truth and honesty of feelings and thoughts meant little to him.

His feet, wrapped in warm dark socks, hit against the ground as he wandered towards the fridge. He took another gulp of water, before tuning his ears to her voice.

“I'm in New York for a meeting, I thought I'd pop by-” Elektra almost appeared to interrupt herself, with a quiet suggestive tone to her voice, yet nothing passed Matt unquestioned.

“Well, you're not staying here, so...”

“I didn’t expect you’d have the energy after all that. And besides, my penthouse in midtown will just have to do, then… remember the nights we spent there?” Her voice alluded to nights warmer than this one. Where the windows fogged up from the inside, and the world itself was blotted out by their own passion and driven craze.

“Look, if you came here to walk down memory lane-”

“I, quite frankly, have every interest in what memory lane holds for both of you!” The Devil chuckled, whilst Elektra interrupted Matt.

“I'm sorry.” There it was again, the sincerity and honesty, resonating deep within her voice. Her heartbeat unmoved by lies, but instead emotion of passion and a sense of love. “I've spent years trying to convince myself that things happen for a reason, that you and I were not meant to be. But I know now. That wasn't fate. It was a choice. My choice. And I'm sorry.” Matt remained quiet, listening intently, unsure what to respond as his mind bristled with painful memories. “I'm alone in the world, Matthew. Do you know what that feels like?”

Matt went to speak, but Elektra sighed and shook her head, burying her face in her hands for a moment before answering herself. “Of course you do… And you know what it's like to clean up your father's messes.” Matt peered confused, still listening. Never talking or interrupting until he heard everything he wanted to know. “A long time ago, before he died, my father did business with the Roxxon Corporation.”

“Roxxon?” Matt interrupted, recalling the name from scandals that perpetuated through legal teams for years. The explosion on the Gulf Platform in 2009, or the recent spillage of a million gallons of crude oil in Florida. He recalled those particular documents well, when not a single Roxxon executive faced court by presidential decree. Now he wondered why Elektra had dealings with it now.

“Energy, cleaning supplies, macaroni and cheese. Child labour, slave trade. They have their fingers in everything – I believe it's called diversification. And thanks to my father's shitty investments, they hold most of his wealth.”

“Yeah, okay… I-” Matt was puzzled for a moment, as Elektra splurged the information at him. Elektra, once again, interrupted him. Her dominance asserted, her voice keeping rid of the silence between them.

“I have a meeting tomorrow with the board at the Yakatomi Building. And I need your help, Matthew.”

“How am I supposed to help you?”

“Once upon a time I would’ve lied to you and said I needed that expensive legal training of yours-” Matt was quick to refute the idea, although Elektra reared his attention back to her words. “But now I’ve seen that glorious darkness you have within you. Fisk sees it and Kilgrave saw.” The very utterance of the name generally provoked a terror and anger to pulsate through Matt, but this time his mind was drawn back to long ago.

The mansion of Roscoe Sweeney, when he was almost pushed to killing a man. He’d wanted to question Elektra about that night for so long, but these words slithered away an answer he’d been searching for.

“The difference between me and them, is the fact I love you because of that darkness. They use and manipulate you, but we are harmonious together when our darkness joins together.”

Matt shook his head. “Don’t pretend like you know me. Because a lot of things have happ-”

“I know.” Elektra spoke calmly and softly, caressing his cheek as they face each other. Compassioned toned her voice. “For you to work for a man like Fisk means you’re desperate, Matthew. Help me tomorrow and I can help you. We can sort this all out.”

Matt shook his head, hearing the footsteps of Kilgrave now approaching him, echoing through the dark edges of his mind. “She’s got something on offer here, Matt… She could help us… She’s got that darkness that could help us punish them…”

“Stick was looking to fight the Yakuza.” Matt spoke cautiously. “This is him, isn’t it?”

“Honestly,” Elektra spoke gently. “He’s too busy dealing with that Walker woman, I wouldn’t worry about what he’s doing. What you should be worried about, is how are we going to stop them?”

Matt scoffed. “You don’t think you’re being a bit presumptuous? You’ve broken into my apartment in the dead of night and-”

“Don’t overthink it.” Her words were short and succinctly spoken, uttered with tenderness like she was whispering to an infant. Although the next few words sat on the edge of her tongue, bound to silence by her pursed and sealed lips, she glanced up towards her reflection in Matt’s eyes. “I think… you loved me once, and I still love you.”

Matt listened intently. His powers transcended that of listening to her words, but instead her heart – literally. “If we do this…” Matt spoke quietly, trying to stop himself at each opportunity. “It could backfire on me.”

“Help me get my father’s wealth, and I’ll outbid Fisk.” She spoke with confidence and certainty as she smiled at Matt, pleasured by the sentiment of agreement. She was unsettled by a silence that grew, so she quickly retorted. “We could be free together, Matthew. Hell’s Kitchen has held you back, and… things have held me back. Together, we could get away from this. You and I. We could have what we used to have.”

Matt laughed, his mind racing back to the days they were together. Ten whole years ago. “You’re really counting on this whole memory lane thing, huh?” Matt paused, and turned his attention back to her, having wandered around in a puzzled pace for a moment. “Nostalgia’s a bitch, you know that, don’t you?”

“Sure.” Elektra replied, as a genuine smile etched itself across her face.

***

As the night settled, with trouble rearing itself at the docks, Matt and Elektra set off on their new efforts to take down the Yakuza.

It had been decided, primarily by Elektra, whose demands were made through soft but domineering words, that Matt should wait aside. Near enough to catch the sounds of the meeting, but far away enough to not be spotted in the midst of it all.

Matt had no reason to refuse.

The morning had been filled with rejected phone calls, as he avoided Foggy who probably wanted to enquire about his lady of the night, or Karen who’d want to tell him something about Fisk or something else in her journalists world. He needed the quiet of the morning to envelop him, preparing him for the new task that laid before him.

The wind was fair, blowing gently through the air as he waited upon the rooftop. The sharpness of the frosty air blended with the bustling sounds fo traffic around the city. Thousands of people went about their lives, waking up, heading out for work. Taxi’s beeped and busses roared, but Matt was able to block all of those noises out.

Instead, he’d managed to find a perfect spot. Close enough to the building to hear and observe, but far enough to avoid being caught.

A board room full of men’s voices was all he could hear for sometime. The men sat and spoke, making decisions on small issues in Roxxon’s portfolio of concerns. Business chat, all seemingly above board. Elektra waited in the lobby, patiently preparing herself for the task ahead. In Matt’s mind, everything was smooth sailing.

Except, a whining buzzing sounded as the doors to the board room were pushed open. The sounded echoed in his ears, a painful high pitch tone that almost blocked out any other noise which originated from the room. Blaring in his ears, ringing on his eardrums with an excruciating pain, as though it was a high-degree of tinnitus.

Matt dropped to the floor. The noise still ringing, screaming in his ear. He clenched his hands over his ears, trying to rid the sound altogether but it failed. He began talking, muttering to himself to add an extra level of noise to drown out the other.

But as he tried to focus on his own voice, as it travelled through the air and through his body, his ears caught onto a new sound.

The disorientating search for sound had surprised him, as he disregarded the painful screeching of the buzzing and instead latched onto a voice. A new voice in the board room.

He certified that it was from the board room, since for all he knew it could be in his own mind. Simply imagined.

“Sit down.” The voice spoke with a slither of evil, though there was a compulsion to listen to the voice by Matt. An accent, English, toned the voice as it spoke with clarity and seriousness. “I’m taking charge of this bloody meeting. Elektra is important to us.” Matt froze, hunched against a wall in a moment of panic, his mind racing back to old memories he’d sought to forget. Matt blocked the voice out by his own omission.

“No.” He repeated that word several times. “No. It can’t be.” He trembled and shook his head, his ears unable to detach themselves from the voice. He could even catch a scent of his cologne, pertinent and strong even from this distance.

*

Elektra’s heels slapped against the tiled flooring of the building. Clasped in her hands was a black purse, matching with her smart outfit and pulled back hair. With her lips painted red and her eyes gleaming with anticipating, she approached the board room with determination.

The guard opened the door at the sight of her, smiling as he did so and nodding her head as she wandered past him. She heeded him little attention, focusing first on the greeting she received as she entered. Seven men in dark suits, each with folders in front of them and glasses of water too, glanced towards her, beginning to nervously pull themselves to their feet.

“Miss Natchios, good afternoon.” Stated the first man with a gleaming smile, shaking her hand.

Somehow, despite the wealth and power held by the men in the room, Elektra controlled it with nothing but her presence. Darting her eyes around the room, she merely asserted dominance with the three words: “You can sit.” A statement which prompted the men to immediately follow her command.

Although, as she ignored the offering of the seat closest to the door, she was thrown off-guarded by a man stood in the corner. She examined his features for a moment, although her obsession with Matt’s recent dealings didn’t leave much of a recall activity to recognise the man.

Purple suit, combed brown hair with a daringly charming expression plastered across her face.

Kilgrave.

“Shit.” She commented, glancing back to the door, watching as one of the men placed a hefty lock around the doors handles. He trembled with anxiety, sweat dropping like thick beads from his forehead. “I- I don’t know where Matthew is.”

Kilgrave laughed. His eyes demeaning as he stared at her with a gleaming evil tint to his brown eyes.

“Ohh,” His voice trailed on the thought as his smile grew. “I’m sure that’s not true. You two have a history. But, I suppose, that’s where we’re similar. Matt is history to me. A means to an end that I don’t need anymore.”

“I don’t need Matt for anything.”

“Of course you do.” Kilgrave grinned as he wandered around the table. “I know women like the back of my hand. You’re needy. Dependent. Always needing the affirmation of men. You hide it, of course, bury deep within some illusion of feminism or something. But basic fact of life – you yearn masculinity.”

“You’re an asshole and a misogynist? That’s original.” Elektra remarked, frustrated, pacing around the table carefully at the same time as he did.

“Oi!” Kilgrave yelled in frustration. “Don’t begin to assume you know anything about me. Apologise, now.”

“Sorry.” Elektra complied, her voice conjoined with the voices of the seven men in the room, who felt an unquestioned compulsion to agree.

Kilgrave sighed, “I’m talking to her, don’t interrupt.” Shaking his head, Kilgrave paused as he stood by the glass doors, facing forward with Elektra stood directly in his sights. “I’ve spent a long time looking for you, Elektra. The Hand have sent me all around on a goose chase to uncover where you’ve been.” He let out an almost-sarcastic chuckle, his eyes still fixed on her, unmoving as they did so. “And here you are, a meeting with Roxxon.”

“I don’t exactly like declaring my whereabouts often.” Elektra’s mind ticked away, trying to find a means of escape. Pulsating through her mind, she sought a way to escape the clutches of Kilgrave. Already she had felt his compulsion, and she knew within moments she would be following her instructions. “But why – why do they want me?” Now she clung onto hope, the vague knowledge that Matt should be nearby and listening, waiting, prepared.

“Some mystic bollocks.” Kilgrave remarked, smirking as he stared across the table. “Immortality, or a weapon, or some sadistic ritual.” Kilgrave shrugged his shoulders. “I decided, when they rescued me from imprisonment, that questioning the ordeal was beyond me. Even a man like me knows my place.”

“Above women, I assume?” She commented, in regards to his former remark. The comment provoked a gruelling smile to etch across his face.

“Always.”

“You don’t mind if I…” Elektra reached into her purse and watched as Kilgrave nodded his head, smiling carefully as his eyes remained unfixed. At first, Elektra simply retrieved a pen. It shimmered blue and gold, metallic and shiny. She twisted it, beginning the very first course of action that she had planned. Although, as she placed the pen down on the table, she dropped her hand into the purse.

She had less than a few seconds to act. Her fingers clambered around, in a nervous panic, which wasn’t quite translated in her face.

“Of course, this is the end of the line for both of us. Your new beginning with the Hand, and the ending for me. It’s an honour to be finishing by handing over a woman of your calibre.”

“I suppose it’s only fair to be caught, by a man of your prowess.”

Kilgrave watched, carefully and confused, though he had little time to react as a sharp-bladed weapon shot across the room. Three blades spiralled towards him, slicing through the air like melted butter. It seared through the atmosphere, a whooshing sound accompanying it. Each blade glimmered under the industrial lights of the room, though it didn’t take much time to shine and bask in the light, as it sliced past Kilgrave’s neck.

One of the men leapt towards Kilgrave, holding a cloth to his throat as it gushed with blood. Kilgrave screamed in pain and rage. “Fucking… shit! That bitch!”

Elektra spotted a door to her side, amidst the commotion, as the men poured around Kilgrave in a frantic panic. She jolted towards it, yanking it open and finding only a compact cupboard of stationary. ‘Shit.’ She thought, glancing back around the room.

With the floor too high and the door locked flooded by panicked goons of Kilgrave’s, Elektra saw no means of immediate escape. She shut her eyes and consolidated herself for a moment, hearing Kilgrave’s furious voice shout from across the room.

“Don’t just hover around me! Fucking- get her!” A clambering of feet echoed through the room, before Kilgrave staggered to his feet. The corner of the room in which Elektra had fled to was out of sight for him, although within moments he watched bodies fly across the room. Pounding sounds of fists and slaps echoed throughout the room, whilst three of the men were thrown across the room. Two pushed against the wall in an urgent retaliation. While the final two were frozen by Kilgrave’s newest instruction.

“Elektra, come and stand here- fuck.” He yelped in pain as he turned around towards the door. He turned his attention away from Elektra, focusing on unlocking the door. He called out, “Call a fucking ambulance or something.” Before his eyes glistened at the sight of Elektra. “You’re coming with me – so don’t fucking hurt me again.” He swore again under his breath, as he winced and wandered out into the small lobby of seats and tables outside the board room.

Chapter Text

The Devil takes it’s form in many ways. Matthew Murdock contended with this idea – what the form the Devil had taken when it confronted him. However, now that he had encountered Kilgrave, he doubted the existence of the Devil. It almost seemed Kilgrave embodied an evil that even Satan wouldn’t touch.

But now it seemed he had arrived on New York territory, and Matt couldn’t help but question how.

***

As the sun slowly set upon New York, drawing the city that never sleeps into a dreaded darkness, boats lodged docked themselves amidst a calm and gentle sea. There was no rain tonight. No clouds. Only the putrid yellow glow of street lamps battling the silver glisten of the moon, whilst the city fought with garish white lights of tall buildings in the distance.

Nobody would necessarily pay attention to the docks. The outskirts of the city with the most traffic. Crates of various colours stacked amongst each other fitted perfectly. They each brimmed with cold metallic tinges, packed with storage of various items.

One in particular was stacked with strange equipment. Strange, at least, to any ordinary person who stumbled across it. A variety of ancient decorative pieces and medical equipment which looked ancient, almost pried from the clutches of an Egyptian tomb or smuggled out of a museum exhibit. Either way, it wasn’t anything to be made sense of by just any person.

Perched above a building, observing the world through his senses, was the silent killer, Stick. He’d perched upon this spot not too long ago, listened as they smuggled in the other Black Sky. Yet now, his position was defensive, knowing full well that these murderers had come to pry the vessel of a woman he held dear to his heart.

Stood alongside him was somebody even more strange than the contents of the particular docking tonight. Once known as Patsy, Trish Walker had now transitioned from radio-host to vigilante. Her outfit, although amaturely made, was enough to disguise herself just enough.

They had trained for this.

Cold nipped the air and they grew tired with patience. Their ears listened, Trish’s eyes watched and although Stick considered the gift of sight would be beneficial, he was grateful for his privilege of hearing.

Eventually, after some tiring hours of waiting, a ship had docked itself. Loaded with a variety of unassuming crates, the ship was like any other shipping boat. Shipping containers clasped into place, waiting for the release from their positions and lifted from a high up crane.

“What a shit-hole.” Remarked a voice from far down below. Stick and Trish, the latter of whom had just caught the whip of the voice, noticed it immediately. Trish felt the hair on her neck stand up, whilst Stick remained fixed and patient. “There’s a reason I wanted you away from here, darling.” The voice was spiked with a British thorn, a gruelling despicable natured toned the enounced words.

It was this moment in which Stick was grateful for the absent of his sight. Where he relied on sounds and smells, Trish was provoked by the mere sight of Jessica. Her sister. Perhaps however, Stick considered, it wasn’t the absence of sight that gave him calm, but the absence of sentimentality. Either way, he was promptly irritated by Trish as she sprung up.

“Oh my god, it’s Jess. Stick, we need to get dow-”

“Shut up.” Stick stated, his voice resonating with no care for the situation at all. “Your sister is a byproduct of this whole situation – we focus on the Black Sky before even approaching the issue of your sister.”

“But she’s there! We could-”

“There’s nothing we could do. One instruction from Kilgrave and we’re under his spell.” His no-shit tone was evident as he bluntly responded, his head turned to Trish’s direction.

Trish, reluctantly, agreed. She resumed her perched position, scouring over the landscape like a cat, ready to pounce into the plunges of hell below. She considered that feeling, looked down at her costume which, unknowingly to Stick had fashioned into a cat-like costume, and smirked. Hellcat.

The unloading of shipping containers continued, and Trish endured the painful sight of Jessica attached to Kilgrave by the hip. In the months of mental corruption, she’d been sculpted into a clingy, overly affectionate woman, practically conjoined with Kilgrave, running her hands over him.

Infatuation, falsely farced by a virus spread from Kilgrave.

“No, no, not that one.” Kilgrave instructed, which evoked a sudden pause in the crane, as it’s metal clasps covered over a dingy, rusting, decadent crate, which had sat in order with the cluster of other crates prior.

As the evening passed, the dock was abruptly filled with a crowd of black unmarked SUVs. Each one contained a suited figure, whilst a crotchety old woman and a middle-aged man, approached Kilgrave.

Stick recognised their scent and voices, feeling a surge of urgency resonate through him. He kept himself restrained, paused and lingered, his ears pricked by their voice as he waited patiently.

“It’s a pleasure to see you once again, Mr Thompson.”  Uttered the woman, her voice calm and collected, though the mention of Kilgrave’s legal surname was toned with a sense of intentional teasing.

Hesitant for a moment, Kilgrave bit his tongue. He didn’t want to spite back, knowing full well that the lady stood before him was more powerful than she appeared. “We don’t want to be long here, so this better be quick.”

“Time, Mr Thompson, is precious” The woman was quick to respond, her wise smile peering back to Kilgrave, answering a thousand questions. “Don’t wish it away. Enjoy your time here – soon, everything will change.”

Before long, the newly-formed crowd wandered across the wet and puddled dock and onto the lonesome boat. Their eyes observed a single shipping container, isolated from the rest which had been piled elsewhere. As they wandered towards it and cranked it open, they exchanged conversation about it’s contents. Words in a language unknown to Kilgrave were thrown around, although he promptly snapped after he’d been frozen from the conversation.

“Everything’s in order, right? We’re free to go.” Kilgrave was quick to assume. So quick, in fact, that the woman turned around with a furious glare in her eyes.

“This is not the Black Sky, Mr Thompson.” Her eyes glared enraged, before she reached her hand backwards towards one of the suited guards, whose faces were covered in dark sunglasses and shrouded with a serious-yet-emotionless expression. The woman handed over a brown envelope she had received from the man behind, watching carefully as Kilgrave’s final mission was clutched in his hand. “She is.”

“Elektra…” Stick murmured carefully and quietly, turning back to Trish. “That’s it confirmed then.” Stick commented, “That woman, Madam Gao, is a finger of the hand.”

“A finger?” Trish chuckled at the ridiculousness of the title. A gesture which provoked an instant of rage to flit across Stick’s face.

“She’s ancient and wise, powerful and dangerous. As are all the leaders of the Hand. Yes, their name might be stupid, but they’re capable of death and destruction. They’ll bring the end of everything.” As Stick spoke, the expected seriousness that often toned his voice was tight. There were no quips or remarks in his words this time. Fury lined his expression, a tale of a lifetime worth of dedication to a cause.

“We’ve had aliens and gods and mutated green men rampage through New York…” Trish began, her voice trailing off as she spotted Stick’s unimpressed expression. “How could it be worse?” She retorted in response to Stick’s raised eyebrow.

“Trust me, kid, shit could go to hell if these guys win.”

Trish glanced back down, her eyes scanning the crowd of people, though her gaze fixed on Jessica. Solely on Jessica. Even from afar, it was undoubtable that something had changed Jessica. Kilgrave had morphed her mind, manipulated her actions.

Trish commented quietly, “and there’s the devil.” There was a pause, an uncertainty exchanged between Stick and Trish. Neither knew what do nor say, and so waited in silence. Baited breath hovered between them, as the crowd beneath grew.

Stick got down from the perch for a moment, rummaging through a duffle bag he had brought, as quietly as possible. Although there was a slight clang of hardened wood, there was no warning for Trish, as Stick emerged back to the perch with a weapon clasped in his hand.

Trish’s expression, although not clear to Stick, was a merger of confusion and amazement. She squatted, with a bewildered look painted across her face, purely in awe of the man’s abilities despite his impairment of sight.

As though he were Hawkeye, or any other renowned archer, Stick sat with a bow and arrow in hand. With fingers wrapped around the bowstring, tension filled the air between them. Precise movements almost contracted the man’s lack of sight, though he could hear the world around him. Sounds were guidances. The voice of Kilgrave was merely a target to calculate, the wind, the waves, the Mandarin.

Caught in utter admiration and amazement, Trish watched as Stick honed his senses. Like a razor, perfected to a sharpened point, his concentration was undoubtedly. Subtle sounds informed his understanding of the whirling world around him.

The voice of the devil was his guiding point.

Despite the whistling of the arrow as it pierced through the misty haze of the evening, it went unnoticed for the most part. Unaffected by the drizzling rain and the frosty glaze to the air, the arrow spun in it’s projectile towards it’s target.

Flesh and bone are far different materials to slice through than cold wet air – a fact the arrow quickly discovered as it slammed straight through the hard shell of a skull.

However, despite the sharpshooting precision of Stick, the arrow missed it’s target. Not by any fault of Stick’s aim, however. Had random and pure luck not been in Kilgrave’s favour, he’d have collapsed to the floor, his neck pierced with the refined point of an arrow, unable to speak his hellish commands.

Malevolent intervention saved Kilgrave’s life, as one of the expendable guards inconviently stepped in the projection of the arrow. Perfectly aligned for Kilgrave’s throat, the arrow had instead stabbed through the man’s skull. Gliding through with all the grace of it’s gruesome image.

“What the fuck?” Kilgrave exclaimed, jolting in response to the grisly sight of the guard’s lifeless collapse to the floor. Now, with the bleeding corpse resting on the floor, the Hand leapt into action.

Trish and Stick exchanged a shit, as they watched the guards scan the rooftops. Within seconds, they dispersed in a search, whilst the ringleaders of the crowded meeting were ushered into SUVs.

Bullets pierced the air with much more velocity, their aerodynamics slicing the air with much more efficiency than Stick’s arrow. The guards senselessly, more in an attempt of intimidation, blasted the rooftop with a cascade of bullets. Were the image of a shower not already represented through the miserable weather, it would perfectly describe the casings collapsing against the ground in that very moment.

As the SUV swerved out of sight, evading the danger with expert timing, the dock was now home to an angered mob of soldiers. Each trained to protect and serve and slaughter.

They converged on the site they suspected was the origin of the arrow, locating the spot with expert specificity. Their eyes, guns and senses honed on the location. Yet, despite their determined accuracy, they found nothing. No sign of people having been there, no sign of an escape, no Stick nor Trish.

Having fled into the night, like shadows shifting in the darkness, Stick and Trish were silently arguing with one another. Stick’s focus was on ending the Hand right then and there, but Trish had other intentions. Kilgrave’s car should be easy enough.

‘932105R’ she had memorised the number plate. Repeating it and sorting it into little categories. Making a little jingle out of it, pretending as though she were waiting for the commercials to end during her old radio show. Recalling the numbers like a phone number stuck within the catchy tune of an ad-break. ‘932-105-R.’

The pair had exchanged agitated looks in different directions, although Trish decided to keep following Stick. Although they disagreed on the best course of action, there was no doubt that he was her best means of escape. His moves were silent, his senses heightened, it only made sense to follow him along.

“Alright, kid, we should be safe now.” Stick uttered cautiously, as they lingered in a dingy stairwell in a quiet street. A puddle congregated by their feet, and although Trish was certain its scentless appearance was merely the residue of rain, she couldn’t quite shake off the feeling it was something else. Regardless, however, if it was a puddle of piss, her mouth spoke out abruptly.

“9-3-2-1-0-5-R.” Reciting the numbers, Trish’s eyes met with Stick's face, and although he wasn’t quite looking at her, she could nevertheless read his expression. “The car’s licence plate.”

“Probably fake.” Stick stated. “Shit,” he complained, dismissing the issue with a sudden frustration falling over him. “I didn’t think one of those fuckers was going to get in the way.”

“But we know they’re back now… we could follow them.”

“I’ve got good senses but I’m not a mutt. All we’ve got is a fake licence plate.”

Silence fell among them. It lingered in the stairwell, the city bustling above them, cast in yellow lights of the streets, the air resonating with a million sounds of sirens and parties and arguments and lovers and children. Everything happening everywhere. Homes of thousands of people.

Then, she paused. She thought about Jessica, her face, broken and distraught.

Her mind lingered to her apartment. Quiet and untouched. Isolated, unsuspecting.

“Kilgrave wouldn’t have anywhere to go. Or at least, anywhere he’d want to go…” Trish’s trembling voice trailed off, as she reached into her pocket. Ignoring Stick’s incessant questioning of what she was doing, she threw the phone to her ears and nervously strutted around the small puddle, avoiding stepping in it, just in case it was actually urine. “Karen! Listen t- I know, I know, just listen. It’s about Jess!”

Stick could hear Karen’s voice pause on the other side. Silence now extended across the phone and amongst the pair. “She’s back. Properly back. With Kilgrave, but she’s back. Where are you?” The question seemed to be a rapid jump, but Karen, overwhelmed with the joyous news that Jessica had found her way back to Hell’s Kitchen, quickly replied.

“Her apartment.” Her voice rang on the other end.

Trish took a deep breath, before quickly replying. “Go to Malcolms.” Urgency almost screamed in her quiet voice, as she paced with a tremor in her feet. “I can’t be sure but I think he might come back there. They’ll think it’s off the radar.”

Stick considered the idea, and waited a few moments for the phone call to end, before racing up the steps alongside Trish. Although his mind blossomed with doubt, he saw little alternative to consider. The Hands’ leaders had run away, Kilgrave unharmed and their location unknown. The suggestion a terrified Kilgrave would lumber his way into Jessica’s old apartment was something to consider in this moment of uncertain panic.

“Where is the apartment?” Stick asked, following Trish as the pair wandered along the street in a rushed pace. They both realised the difficulty of appearing urgent but not suspicious, although the sparse night streets were reassuring enough.

“46th Street. About ten minutes from here – but Kilgrave will be there soon, so we need to be quick.”

Nothing about the building suggested anything odd. Although it looked dingy and the air was dank the road had drunks slumbering down it, nothing suggested apartment 5F was harbouring a criminal. Yet, Trish disregarded appearances now, and Stick was following Trish’s gut regardless.

Carefully stopping the door from shutting, as a couple (who were way too handsy) wandered inside, Stick and Trish pursued their target.

Clanging through the hallway were their footsteps, as they avoided the dangers of a lift possibly influenced by the twisted and deviant mind of Kilgrave. The peeling wallpapers and rusting metal bannisters were enough of a sign of the building’s poor conditions, but the pair were focused on one key detail. Fifth Floor.

As they pushed the door open and stumbled into the hallway, Stick unexpectedly paused. Gripped onto Trish’s arm like a predator bird clutching onto meat. Piercing fingernails dug through the fabric of her clothes, whilst a patient and cautious expression tainted the shape of his mouth.

Trish threw a glance back towards him, curious and cautious. Hopeful too. Perhaps this was it, exactly what she wanted to hear. A warning, a reminder to be careful, an alert that their target had been found.

“Voices.” He commented in the quietest whisper that Trish wondered if she’d caught a sound carried by the draught.

“How many?”

“One British.”

“The other?”

Stick didn’t answer. Not because he didn’t know, nor because he didn’t want to say. The voice twanged in his ears, calling out across the hallway even if infrequently. Instead, he didn’t answer because he didn’t need to.

“I love you, Kilgrave.” The voice of Jessica Jones resonated through the corridor. Although quiet, it was loud enough to reach through the door and through the halls and seep into the sickened ears of Trish and Stick.

Trish stood, frozen. Guilt washed over here, seizing every fibre of her body like a tide crashing against a shore with ferocity. Her eyes locked on the door of apartment 5F. She watched the glass door, where faint dark figures moved inside, hidden behind the gold inscription of Alias Investigations.

“Jessica’s in there.”

*

Anybody would consider it a coincidence that Karen and Malcolm were well-equipped with face masks that prohibited the spread of disease. Almost donning military-grade equipment, the pair were ready for the mission put to them, having prepared themselves for this encounter a long time ago. Jessica’s return was bound to be fraught with this level of danger and threat, and now it was a notion that barely phased them.

“Are you sure these will protect us?” Trish wondered, glancing back to Karen, glancing through the machine plastic screen that restricted their line of sight.

“It’s a good thing I can’t see,” Stick commented, after Karen’s reassurance of Kilgrave’s powers being bacterial. His comment commanded an awkward silence to fall upon the room, whilst his face lit up with a grin. “I don’t have to see how stupid we look.”

“They’re not the most flattering, I know.” Karen regarded, catching sight of herself in a dingy and smeared mirror. “But it’s enough.”

“You three deal with Jessica.” Stick instructed, his authority seizing silence once again, although this time it was respectful rather than awkward.

Neither of the three wanted to disagree, although only Karen and Malcolm nodded in agreement towards the man. Adjusting their masks, they prepared themselves, feeling nothing but a simmering tension in the air, cut through by a glance of determination from each. They each shared a silent promise to fight to free Jessica, regardless.

Chapter Text

I love you, Kilgrave.

***

There’s no perfect way to describe the moment that the four broke through the doors of apartment 5F. It was a cluster of scrambling and panic and terror. The door splintered open and shards of metal and wood shot across the entrance as the lock of the door fractured and shattered.

Mishandled by the four, three of whom raced in with no sense of clear purpose beyond rescuing Jessica.

A frenzy.

Haywire activity, crazily approached as they searched inside for any sign of Jessica or Kilgrave.

Except, it wasn’t exactly difficult.

Before them was a chilling sight. Jessica, stripped down into the barest of clothing, a tank top and some jogger bottoms, jet black hair neatly pulled into a ponytail, bruises lining her arms. Kneeling down, she stared up fixated at a small CD player, which appeared to be spinning and circling with the voice of Kilgrave continuing over and over and over.

The mahogany desk had been cleared, small nik-naks thrown off either side, made home to photographs of Kilgrave and Jessica together. Almost shrine like, as a tie dangled down before her and a yellow dress splattered with blood.

Despite the frenzied entrance, Jessica didn’t move. She didn’t flinch, nor turn her head. She didn’t speak or look or even make a noise. Her ears, instead, tuned to the voice of Kilgrave playing over the CD player, eventually uttering the words: “I love you, Kilgrave.”

Trish froze.

Stick rushed around the apartment searching for any sign of Kilgrave. His senses located the residue that Kilgrave had left behind, but he found nothing. Bedroom, kitchen, bathroom, cupboards – all empty. Jessica had been left, trapped in a traumatised trance, worshiping the shrine to Kilgrave. Were Trish in the mood to crack jokes, the lack of a pentagram on the floor would’ve been her first remark.

But instead, the first words to escape her mouth were a terrified plea for Jessica. No amount of shaking, or hand waving or name calling broke the trance. “Jess!” Trish repeated over and over and over. But, unsurprisingly, to no avail.

Malcolm watched, paralysed and filled with pity, whilst Stick waited, silently listening to the sounds in the apartment, whilst carefully listening to whatever was happening outside. Karen hovered by the doorway, transfixed and terrified by the sight.

Trish crawled in front of Jessica, pleading and shaking her. Although Jessica was trapped in a frozen trance, Trish could have sworn she saw Jessica’s eyes lock with hers for a moment. Nothing could emulate the fear and pain and sadness that resonated in that briefest of glances, but it confirmed one thing to Trish.

Without hesitation, she leapt to her feet and began pulling Jessica up. Although, as she did so, it felt like all the worlds gravity was clasping her down to the ground.

Panicked and struggling, Trish asked for Malcolm and Karen to help, and despite the fact the extra pair of hands fought against the massing weight Jessica was forcing down, there was another hurdle.

Jessica grunted. It almost sounded inhumane, as she stood to her feet and threw the three across the room. There were no words or expression-filled glances. Just grunts and glaring eyes, before Jessica returned to the ground. Kneeling once again, she returned to her trance and repeated the words, “I love you, Kilgrave.”

Recovering from a panging agony, Trish and Malcolm reconvened behind Jessica, but now hesitant to try again. “We need somebody stronger.” Trish stated, glancing to Karen with a determined and knowledgeable glance. Malcolm threw a confused expression, and between the time Karen nodded her head reluctantly and searched through her contacts, Stick had interrupted disapprovingly.

“This is a waste of time. Kilgrave and the Hand are still out there. We need to find them.” Stick spoke with the same authority and certainty that had toned his voice all night. There was a coldness, covering up a residual piece of pity that was fading with the clear evidence at hand that Jessica was either a trap or a lost cause.

"No." Trish bit back. Her head swivelled within an instant of the words being uttered, and her eyes locked with the face of the old man. Her face shimmered in the reflection of his black glasses, the same reflection which she could spot Jessica’s head from the back. “Jess needs to be safe. That’s our priority. Change your priority all you want, but we cannot let Jess stay trapped here.”

“She’s got superhuman strength. In this room we’ve got one girl who could barely throw a punch, a recovering drug addict and a girl who only just learned how to fight against her mother. You really think we could even get Jessica to take a step forward? We need to be focusing on what’s important here.”

“Oh right, the supernatural city ninjas that are more powerful than aliens and gods?”

“Simplify it all you want to make it sound stupid, but we need to get our shit together. We already failed tonight.”

Trish scoffed. “We? We failed? Weren’t you the one who failed the shot?”

“You’re also failing to pick up a superhuman girl. I suppose we’ve all failed tonight.”

Karen promptly interrupted. “Luke can help.” Karen hung up the phone, nobody having realised she was on the phone, pacing in the small hallway entrance of the apartment. Her statement brought silence amongst the room, even bringing Stick to a speechless halt.

“I love you, Kilgrave.”

Jessica’s voice broke the silence, before their attention was drawn to the ghostly echoes of Kilgrave’s voice.

*

The sauntering of the hulking Luke Cage cast shadows down the hallway, as he briskly wandered into apartment 5F. Chasing behind him like an eager and excitable puppy was Foggy, who was similarly enthralled and focused on the situation at hand.

“Sweet Christmas, You finally found her. What’s wrong with her?”

“Kilgrave.” Trish and Karen uttered the same word at the same time. Their eyes wide and cautious. They dared not look back to Jessica, as the sight had become unbearable to bare witness to. The very name erupted a shudder down Trish’s spine, as she finally laid her eyes back on Jessica. Tears swelled from her eyelids, dripping down her cheeks and blurring her vision for a moment.

“We can’t pick her up.” Malcolm added, glancing between the others who had fallen under the mention of the name of the devil. Luke turned around, his eyes noticing the cracking plastered wall that had been made when Malcolm impacted against the wall. Luke raised his eyebrow, before looking back at Jessica.

“She had an accident.” Trish interrupted, cautiously, quietly, tentatively. “She’s strong.” She added, refusing to add any extra detail.

Now, as they stood under the darkness of the apartment, dimly lit by the hallway lights and streetlamps, they were faced with their second attempt to rescue Jessica. Luke glanced around, almost reassuring himself that everything would be fine. In all honesty, although he’d faced bullets before, there was still a sense of apprehension when he approached something unexpected. Nothing about the bruised woman seemed to be strong enough, she was thin and tiny in comparison to him, yet the fractured and cracked walls spoke for themselves.

Hulking over her, he reached his arms around her waist and holstered her up. It was easier for Luke than it had been for Trish alone, but even Luke had met his adversary.

Jessica was strong. There was no doubt about that. He could feel her forcing herself to the floor, refusing his struggling efforts to heave her upwards. After a few moments of her being suspended in the air, trying force her way back down to the ground, Jessica began to lash out.

Flailing arms swung and fought, trying their best to unleash themselves. Jessica’s jet-black hair whipped the air in an effort for freedom. Luke’s arms clasped onto hers with all his brute strength, but Jessica was proving unrelenting, worsened as she let out no signs of struggle. Only grunts, inhumane sounds kept to a quiet minimum as she pushed back against Luke’s strength.

Trish leapt forward to grip onto her chaotically thrown legs, before promptly feeling herself being launched across the room.

The sole’s of Jessica’s boots smashed against the table, exerting enough force to propel it across the room, consequently forcing Luke to stumble backwards. The crashing and banging brough a screeching halt to Kilgrave’s haunting whispers, but nobody cared enough to notice. Malcolm and Karen rushed to assist Trish, whose head was bleeding from the thrust against the wall.

Stick watched silently. Foggy backed away, frantically trying to figure out what he could do.

In the midst of the chaos, as the hulking Luke stumbled and staggered backwards, Jessica freed an arm. She was now only dragged by one, restrained by the thick grasp of Luke, who was slow to notice her freed arm.

Jessica, with a firm standing on the ground, pushed against Luke. Caught of guard, Luke felt his body push backwards once again. Jessica’s hand slowly slipping as it fought for freedom, rebelling against Luke’s tight and powerful grip.

Despite his surprise, Luke persisted. His arms targeted Jessica’s fists, stopping each punch and strike her threw, though not quite managing to prevent the full force completely.

“Foggy – get the damn syringe!” Luke shouted, taking a brief glance back to Foggy who, flustered, agreed without hesitation. He began to rifle through his pockets, before revealing a brown paper bag. The crumpling of the bag was almost louder than the grunts Jessica let out, and he promptly retrieved a syringe which leaked with tiny, slow droplets of a liquid jumbling around inside.

At the sight of the syringe, Luke lunged forward. With one hand pinning Jessica's arm against the wall, he reached for the syringe with the other. Yet, despite Luke’s strength, Jessica relentless, Kilgrave-induced state forced her resistance. Tensing her muscles, she twisted and writhed, her movements like a rabid and wild creature clamouring against restraints.

Trish, Malcolm, and Karen watched in horror. Trish ignored the staining blood as it painted her fingers a crimson red, focusing more on the ensuing fight between the two extraordinary forces. Stick remained stoic, his senses alert as he anticipated Jessica's next move, but resisting the temptation to involve himself.

“Jessica, we're here to help you. You need to calm down.” The attempt to reason was futile, proven easily by the eyes of Jessica. The movements akin to a wild animal were easily reflected by the wide seething eyes. Her mind consumed by the instructions of Kilgrave.

A single jab of the syringe’s needle was enough to force the sedative into her system. The whole ordeal was quick, but hardly painless. Suddenly, with a gut-wrenching cry, Jessica collapsed to the floor, her body convulsing. Trish rushed to her side, holding her tightly as tears streamed down her cheeks.

Trish could only hope that Jessica had been freed from the invisible chains that bound her.

After what felt like an eternity, Jessica's convulsions began to subside, and she laid still, her breathing shallow and ragged. Trish gently swished the black hair from Jessica's face, cradling her contently. Embracing her with nothing but relief and comfort.

Her sister was safe. She was back.

“We need to get her to a safe place,” Luke said, breaking the silence. “Somewhere she can rest and recover.” Glances passed around the room. Stick voluntarily walked out of sight, standing in the hallway as the group discussed the likely options. Karen confessed she and Trish could be tracked down, whilst Luke persisted he had no desire to bring trouble to Harlem. So, in consequence, the only viable option fell upon Foggy, who chuckled nervously.

“Okay…” He quickly considered the notion, before nodding his head. “But if Kilgrave is back, we need to check on Matt.”

“Don’t worry about Matty.” Stick intervened, stepping out from the entrance. “We need to find Elektra.”

“Who?” Foggy interrupted, his keys jangling in his pocket frantically searching for them.

Stick glanced to Trish, ignoring Foggy’s obliviousness. “Tomorrow morning.” He spoke quietly, with the same unaffected certainty and authority that he’d carried for the rest of the evening. Turning around, the hallway echoed with the clanging of his stick, detecting his way towards the elevator.

Free from the awkward presence of Stick, the group sprang into action. Luke lifted Jessica over his shoulder, her limp form surprisingly light against his powerful frame.

Quickly, Trish gathered her things, whilst her mind raced with thoughts of what had just transpired.

Outside, the night air was cool and crisp, a welcome relief after the tension of the dark and dingy apartment. Luke led the way, his long strides eating up the pavement as they made their way to Foggy’s apartment.

Karen and Trish’s eyes observed the streets, cautiously and worried. Their paranoia seeped into their minds, sensing they were being followed, though not being able to catch any sight of definitive proof to confirm their fears.

The journey passed in silence; each member of the group lost in their own thoughts. Trish couldn't shake the image of Jessica's haunted eyes from her mind, the pain and fear etched into every line of her face. Kilgrave’s voice lingered in their mind, though they were relieved that the devil-incarnate hadn’t been around to infect their minds.

When they eventually arrived, Foggy led them inside, his footsteps echoing in the quiet darkness. Small but cozy, Foggy’s apartment was welcoming with it’s comfortable furnishings and warm, inviting colours. A flicker of an awkward smile glistened across his face.

Luke gently laid Jessica down on the couch, his hands lingering for a moment as he looked down at her unconscious form. There was something about Jessica that he couldn’t quite put his finger on. It almost felt as though the universe was tugging him towards her, as though she was supposed to be part of his life. He felt a sense of familiarity with her. Comfortable and safe, whilst also baffled by the whole tumult of emotions that overwhelmed in in the moments that his fingers lingered for a moment.

Beside him, Trish watched as her sister slept soundly. Although it was based on her preconceptions of Kilgrave, she could only assume that this was probably the most peaceful sleep Jessica had been gifted in a long time. Trish frowned, pure pity and fear and sadness nestled in her heart. She glanced at the bruises that lined her arm, darkening her skin into patches of black and brown and purple and yellow.

Slowly, the night marched on. Jessica slept soundly, sombrely and peacefully throughout the night. The group huddled around into a tense vigil, all taking turns to watch over her.

Outside, the world was quiet. Of course, it was busy and loud, hummed with the sounds of the city. Cars drove and beeped and swerved. People shouted, laughed, drank, sang. But despite all that, the streets were quiet. The world unstirred, at least in comparison to the chaos experienced by Jessica in her past few months.

Except, as the sun began to break through the curtains of Foggy’s apartment, and the city began to bustle with more noise, Jessica began to stir. Almost as though she herself was connected to the city’s own life, she twisted and turned, groaned and murmured.

Trish kneeled by her side, clasped onto her hand waiting with hope brimming in her eyes.

Eventually, Jessica’s eyes flickered open. They resisted the urge to keep shut, and slowly Jessica caught sight of Trish. Her thoughts raced with relief and joy and happiness, finally she had found safety. Trish’s blonde hair merged with the blinding early sunlight that cascaded through the window, confusing her as the white complexion almost glowed with the gleam of the sun. A fleck of recognition found itself rooted in Jessica’s eyes as she glanced up towards her sister. Yet, with the lifting haze of sleep finally ascending, Jessica’s expression changed. It darkened. Expressionless fury.

“Jess?” Whispering, Jess clung onto hope, although it quickly wavered as her eyes locked with Jessica’s. In her mind she recited a prayer, begging for the swift shift of expression to not be an omen. Yet, very quickly, she felt her heart sink. Her eyes scanned Jessica’s face, before glancing down towards her hand. Bruises lined down towards a clenched and firm fist, trembling with pure strength.

Jessica’s lips opened, parting but with no sound to follow. Slowly, her eyes gazed around the room. They darted from face to face, in rapid succession. Breathing with shallow gasps, Jessica observed in a panic, quickly noticing an absence.

Trish squeezed her hand in a panic, but promptly felt her hand break it’s grip. Jessica didn’t utter a word, not even responding to Trish’s quiet pleas. “It's okay, Jess,” she softly said. “You're safe now. We're here for you.”

Recoiling at her touch, Jessica’s body tightened. Every muscle tensed, fists clenched and panicked, prepared instantly for a fight. There was a feral fury lining her face, primal and rage fuelled. She analysed the room, puzzled by the lack of Kilgrave or her own apartment.

The primal fury faded, and Jessica glanced around bewildered. Almost a dear caught in headlights. Frozen and paralysed.

“Jess, please,” Trish pleaded, failing as she did so. Quickly noticing her failure, Trish gave up the sympathetic and calm role she had insisted on playing. “For god’s sake Jessica! We’re here to help you! I know you’re in there. You can fight it – like you did before!”

“There must be something we can do.” Malcolm’s voice trembled with uncertainty. “We can't just let her suffer like this.”

Karen spoke quietly, almost ashamed to utter the words that mumbled from her mouth. “There is one thing.” Softly her words carried such rage and anger, but uttered with such calm and quiet. “Cut off the infection.”

Nobody responded. Jessica didn’t respond to the words, and the rest were guilt ridden by the violent – yet arguably justified – images that flashed in their minds. Based on their understanding of Kilgrave’s powers before, Kilgrave’s consciousness was needed for his powers to be sustained. Thus, either making him unconscious or killing him severed the connection. The feed of thoughts and viruses cut off, like the head of a snake, left rolling along the floor.

Yet a flicker of panic flushed through Karen’s face, as she considered they had no idea how powerful Kilgrave had become. His powers lasted longer from the sounds of the records she’d found, and Jessica was still entranced by Kilgrave despite her unique initial immunity.

Moments later, Jessica’s primal instinct that had been manipulated by infected words jolted into action. Karen’s flitting thoughts were quickly lost in the chaos of the moment, as Jessica leapt through the room at a violent speed. Lashing out against the group, a guttural cry resonated through the room. Her fists swung violently and wildly, with no specific target in mind.

They were almost swings of desperation or terror. Determination or persistence – either way, they were efforts to fight. Although, through the frenzied swinging of fists, Malcolm and Karen watched in horror. Trish back away, avoiding her sister’s feral attack, watching through tears that trickled and then gushed down her cheeks.

Luke stepped in the way, talking the strikes and the blows, before clutching onto Jessica’s hand. For a moment, their eyes locked. There was a moment, although merely a few milliseconds brief, that serenity passed over Jessica.

Little to anybody else’s understanding, Jessica felt an engraved guilt carved deep into her heart. Her mind flashed with the night of Reva’s death.

*

Kilgrave said to take care of her. It was my fault I killed her. Kilgrave gave me orders like he usually did, but I interpreted them that way. Because deep down, like everybody else in this cesspit of a world, I’m shit. An asshole. Violent, hateful, angry. My first resolve was murder.

I see her now. That night. The yellow of the streetlamps on her skin. The alleyway we wandered out of, His voice so strong and powerful. That slimy British accent, confident and smug.

I remember the impact of my fist. The power against her chest, the force forward, landing her in the street. Both of our faces lost expression under Kilgrave’s control, but I could see the acceptance in her eyes. That’s what haunted me. Kilgrave stole everything from her, but even in her last moments her eyes barely told the feelings she felt.

That’s what Kilgrave does to you. He steals your life, body and soul. I don’t claim to be religious, not even the slightest faith of an afterlife, but he makes me believe in one thing. All the evil in the world comes from somewhere. And he, he is the Devil incarnate.

Main street… I love you, Kilgrave.

*

For the briefest of moments, Jessica seemed to waver and falter. Her mind caught between two thoughts, spurred on by the guilt that wafted over her. All those months, observing Luke from afar.

Yet, with incredibly speed, the violent singing began again. As Jessica’s feral mind noted that the attempts to free herself from Luke’s impressive restraining clutches were failing, she pulled herself backwards. Luke was propelled with her, not expecting the sudden movement, as Jessica’s powerful force dragged him down to the ground.

Instinctively, he let go of Jessica’s hands and stretched out his palms to catch his fall.

Beneath him, Jessica’s slim frame jittered out of his eyeline, as she rolled out of the way. Seconds, which felt like eternities each, passed as she staggered to her feet and raced towards the door. Malcolm and Karen and Foggy’s attempt to prevent her escape failed, each swatted away like lingering houseflies.

Trish shouted something incoherent as Jessica reached the door. Her voice tainted by the sobbing and aching throat resonated through the apartment, and whilst nobody else caught the words, Jessica’s ears pricked. Unexpectedly, as Trish threw out a last-ditch effort to help her sister, her plan had worked.

Jessica froze in the hallway, slowly twisted around, at a rate so unnerving, it was almost fitting for a scene of The Exorcist.

Their eyes locked. Trish took a step forward and repeated the words. “Main street?” She spoke tentatively, watching as Jessica’s eyes flitted with recognition.

“What’s she doing?” Foggy quietly asked Karen, who dismissed his question with a quick shush.

“Main Street. Birch Street. Higgins Drive. Cobalt Lane.” Trish uttered in its entirety. Only now, in the chaos, she recalled the words. Almost like codewords to a sleeper agent, activating itts primal instincts. Yet, in this case, quite the opposite.

Its effect wasn’t as immediate as Trish had hoped. The recounting of the phrase happened a few times until Jessica’s paralysed and speechless body made any sign of life. She blinked.

“I love yo-”

The words were quickly intercut by Trish. “Higgins Drive. Cobalt lane.”

“Main Street.” Jessica and Trish spoke in unison, calmly, hesitantly, terrified. Jessica convulsed as she uttered the other words, collapsing to the ground in agony, her body fighting through the infection laid out by Kilgrave. “Birch Street. Higgins Drive. Cobalt Lane.” She completed, coiling herself into a ball on the floor, repeating the words, rocking herself gently, synchronised with the words.

*

Main Street. Birch Street. Higgins Drive. Cobalt Lane.

*

Trish rushed to embrace Jessica, holding her tightly as her sister rocked back and forth. She whispered something to her, although quiet and indiscernible, the other’s could tell it’s significance.

Jessica felt a power within her mind. Freedom. Her own mind commanded her fingers to twitch, and she uttered a word. The first word that came to her mind. “Bourbon.” She spoke, ignoring Trish’s word of assurance, finally feeling some freedom.

She wasn’t quite certain what followed those moments. A stream of tears flooded her face, the first time in a long time she was overwhelmed by emotion.

Jessica reeled her head up and caught sight of Trish. Through sobbing eyes and breathless stammers, she smiled. She cleared her throat and pure happiness wiped through her mind. “I love you,” there was a pause. An instinct tried to reel itself into place.

“Jessica.” The lone wired word wormed itself through her ear. Echoed in her thoughts. “Say that you love me.” The mantra he set out for her to repeat began cycling in her mind.

“Jess?” Trish abruptly shook her sister, locking her eyes with her once again, panic flying over her.

“I love you, Trish.”

Chapter Text

Irony is profound across the timelines. Whilst deviations burn brightly, sometimes the changes draw together by chance or luck. As Kilgrave stumbled into the hospital, clutching his side as blood oozed from the pierced wound caused by the ninja star, he clambered into the care of Claire Temple.

Now, isolated together in a single room, were two divergent players in the life of Matt Murdock.

***

“Bollocks!” Kilgrave expelled, as Claire attempted to sterilise the blood-stained wound. Above them, the fluorescent white light shimmered with an almighty glow, cast upon the bed of which Kilgrave laid, with a wound in his side oozing with thick blood.

“It’s a pretty deep wound-” Claire muttered to herself, promptly interrupted as the man cried out without warning.

“I don’t need anaesthetic!” In response, Claire rolled her eyes and wandered across the room for a pair of scissors. His abrupt scream was swiftly met with an agitated face, as she looked down at him. Unphased by Kilgrave’s screaming, she glared at the British man.

“No, you don’t. It’s just a deep cut.” She murmured, beginning to dress the wound delicately. Although she had every temptation to jab the man slightly, she felt herself under his view. Eyes like a predator, almost waiting for something. Evil slithered past his iris and into his dark contracting pupils. Yet, in a few seconds, the anger and rage vanished as he winced and squinted, revealing what was deep within him still. A child.

“Tell me, what’s your name?” Kilgrave wondered, failing to see a nametag as she finished the relatively easy task. A compulsion drove the nurse and the words splattered out her mouth, like a hiccup or a cough.

“Claire.” Not thinking much of the odd compulsion, Claire glanced towards the woman who stood in the shadows of the room. Her eyes watched sceptically, glancing between the purple-suited man and the shadowed woman. There was a fear or uncertainty, or perhaps both. Hidden beneath a stoic expression, the woman’s face was clearly uncomfortable stood where she was. “She doesn’t have to stand there if she doesn’t want to. Not everybody is a fan o-”

“Yes, she does.” Kilgrave winced as he returned to his feet, groaning in agony, before his eyes fell upon the nurse. “And you, Claire, have a terrible attitude. Not the best way to treat a paying customer.” Kilgrave chuckled as he glared down towards her. “That said, I’m not paying. But at least in England, we don’t have this problem.”

“Maybe you should’ve stayed there.”

Kilgrave smirked as he glared down, unmoved, unphased. His eyes raging, but his smile amused. “But the women here… And the thrill of your lives. No… my calling is here, Claire. But first, I need to drop this lady off before any of that. Mystic bullshit to resolve before I continue.” The man grinned, running his hand along Claire’s face, before whispering an instruction for her to remain still.

Claire felt her body paralyse itself. Every muscle froze. Immoveable legs, frozen arms, her torse locked into place, her fingers stuck as they were.

*

Twelve minutes had passed. Claire knew because she faced the clock and she glanced towards it the moment the purple-suited man had left the room. She listened to the busy corridors outside, as people were rushed around and the doctors and nurses were kept busy throughout the day.

By the tenth minute, Claire gave up all hope of moving a limb. Her eyes moved fine, her voice managed to call out for help, her breathing wasn’t tainted. Just the limbs. She wondered if it was a breakdown – the consequence of a hectic few months.

At the twelfth-minute mark, the doors to the room swung open. Promptly, however, the fear and helplessness resumed its natural course through her body, as she laid eyes upon a man. In a light grey suit, with red glasses adorned to his face and a cane clutched in his hand. The man stumbled in without any sign of difficulty or impairment and, without warning, began sniffing the air.

He faced Claire, listening carefully, before approaching cautiously. “Hello?” Claire looked confused, but was quick to dismiss the racing questions in her mind.

“That- that man. He wore a purple suit, horrible cologne – he froze me here. I don’t know how, but I can’t move at all. He told me to stay still and I did, and I still am.” Claire was panicked, her attempts to hold her strength dissipated as she explained the incoherent situation to the blind man.

“There’s nothing that can be done.” The man explained, shutting the door behind him, before hurrying around the room. He moved with such swift and agility and observance, that it was almost impossible to consider that he was even blind at all. “Kilgrave’s effects last a while – I wouldn’t be surprised if they’ve grown stronger since I last saw him…” The man stood beside Claire now, clearly busy thinking. Before Claire could question what a Kilgrave was, the man instinctively continued. “What did he say? Did he say where he was going?”

Claire thought for a moment, letting out a quick succession of filler words before she blurted out her response. “To drop the woman off!” She quickly stated, throwing out the answer, so that she had enough time to weave her own question in. “Who are you? What’s going on? Why is this happening?” The panic had settled, and now a new state toned her voice. Frustration – waiting for a strange blind man, who pivoted around like he had more awareness than any person with 20/20 vision, to explain himself.

“That man, Kilgrave, has powers. Superpowers – enhanced powers.”

“Just what this city needs.” Claire’s sarcasm covered the panic that spiked her heartbeat and dripping sweat. She only hoped that the blind man’s scent wasn’t strong enough to pick up the smell of the beads of sweat that glazed her skin. The man pivoted around towards her curiously, an expression lining his face. “We’ve been so busy lately. Some man in a suit has been attacking all sorts of criminals and they’ve all been brought here. Making his vigilantism our business – as if we don’t have enough to deal with day-to-day. And now this Kil-grade?”

“Kilgrave.” The man corrected quietly, before looking back to the woman. “Did he say anything else?”

“No – only that he didn’t want anaesthetic.”

The man frowned as he turned back to face the door. Now, as he waited patiently and quietly, he could smell the horrid scent of Kilgrave’s cologne. The smell lingered in the air, tainting anything that it could latch itself onto. The smell itself dragged him into the memory from month’s prior, and in his mind formed the face of Kilgrave.

“Face it, Matthew.” A cold, British accent resonated in his head, though the disorienting sense made the voice feel present in the room. “There’s no tracking me down. I’m a step ahead of you, always.”

Claire watched as the man froze, inattentive to what she had to say. Her eyes fixed on him, before impulsively shouting at the very top of her lungs. “Listen! I don’t know what’s going on, but can you help me?” The man glanced towards her, his attention drawn away from the lingering voice in the corner of the room. Hesitation formed the silence that followed, as he clearly pondered how he would break the news to her. Swiftly getting the hint, Claire sighed. “What do you need to stop this guy?”

“Sedative.” The man answered, prompting an amused laugh from Claire, though all that really emerged was a hefty chuckle limited by the paralysis of her body. “What?”

“What’s sedative going to do to a man who can do this?” She asked viciously. There was a speed to her voice as she expressed her rage.

“Long story short, his powers are a virus. The microparticles or pheromones – or something – that he emits cause this obedience. But when sedated, we cut off the production of those pheromones.” The man explained, and although Claire stared at him bemused, there was a sincerity in his voice as he explained the situation further.

“That’s- that’s not how any of that works.” Claire abruptly interrupted, her eyes meeting with the man’s unexpecting expression. “There’s got to be more to it than that, surely.”

“It’s how it worked last time, and if he was scared about anaesthetic, then it’s more than likely it still works.” The man approached her carefully, locking eyes carefully. “Please, Claire.”

The man glanced at her name badge, and beneath the stoic and confusing expression, there was a slither of a reassuring smile. Between the pair, they felt a familiarity – a sense of de ja vu. For a split second, indescribable in sensation, they both knew of a time where they knew each other, before it drifted off into the ether.

“Tell me, how does a blind man walk around like he’s running on air and get wrapped up in the business of assholes with viruses. Who are you?”

“The less you know about me the better.” The man stated vaguely, nervously.

Were Claire not frozen, she expected she would throw her arms up in frustration alongside her rolling eyes and heavy sigh. “I’m trusting you to save my life and tempted to hand over sedative to you. I should at least know. Why are you helping me?”

“Because you need help-”

“You’re a terrible liar.” The woman smirked, knowing the growing rarity of finding the actual answers she sought out. “I’m not even supposed to be working today, I could be relaxed at home and ye-” Echoing throughout the room was a simple ringtone, overlaid with an automated voice. Although muffled, Claire could hear it alerting the man that ‘Foggy’ was calling. She paused, now feeling the tension in her muscles as she did so.

The man apologised and reached into his pocket. His finger hovered over the screen, tempted to reject the call. Busy things were keeping him on his toes, and the last thing he wanted was his best friend asking a million questions as to why he wasn’t home this morning. Then, he envisioned Kilgrave holding the phone against Foggy’s face, the screen mushed against the clammy cheeks and bristled in his overgrown hair.

“Matt – Where are you? Kilgrave’s back – we got Jessica. She’s safe, but he might be coming for you.” Claire listened intently and curiously. Although she knew it was bad manners to eavesdrop, her situation needed all the information she could gather.

“I’m at the hospital. Kilgrave went after Elektra – he didn’t care about me.”

“Elektra? The girl from college? What does he want from her? Why are you at the hospital?”

The man chuckled, before letting out a heavy sigh. “Foggy, calm down with the questions.”

“No, Matt. You’ve not answered your phone all night, and we’ve been here trying to deal with this whole Jessica situation. I need you to tell me. What is going on?”

Once again, the man paused. He contemplated answering, telling Foggy everything. Allies would be helpful, especially now as he grew ever more desperate. But, at the same time, he knew the danger that Kilgrave posed.

From Claire’s perspective, the man changed responded to the onslaught of questions within seconds. Yet, to the man, the lingering voice of Kilgrave teased him. Dwelled on the fear that resonated in his heart, keeping him quiet – a voice that he resisted with a great deal of power.

The man explained the night before, the visit by Elektra. The morning plan, Elektra’s attack and Kilgrave’s orders to get him to the hospital. With each thread of the story, his voice teemed with fear and terror. The tone of everything he said capturing his very soul and essence.

“Shit…” Foggy muttered quietly on the other end. “I’ll come down and help out – you need someone with you.”

“No – Foggy, I need you to stay back there. I’ll handle this… I can track him down. Just keep Jessica safe.”

“But, Matt–”

“Foggy, this is my fight.” The man stated, and soon after a hesitant acceptance from Foggy, the phonecall ended. The room was restored to silence and Claire waited nervously, not sure if she should continue her line of questioning after Foggy’s.

The man stood silently, his brain ticking away, whilst his mind made sense of the smells lingering in the room. Kilgrave was too far to be heard, but like any trained sniffer dog, he could follow the scent. He then calculated his next steps, where did he go from here? Did he suit up at home, get help from Foggy, run straight in to save Elektra?

“Matt.” Claire broke the silence cautiously, interjecting the absence of sound with a compassionate tone to her voice. “I can see you’re capable and I don’t even want to question what you could do – but please, be smart about this. This… guy- Kilgrave, he is powerful, isn’t he?” She asked rhetorically, receiving a small, reluctant nod of Matt’s head in response. “Then you need help. Somebody else.”

“One condition,” Matt grinned, turning to face her. She raised her eyebrows in anticipation for him to carry on. “Sedatives.” Claire agreed, gently replying by telling Matt where to find what he was looking for.

She watched as he retrieved the sedatives and threw his hand into his pocket. Although, as Matt cycled through his phone for help, Claire paid far more attention to the growing aching pains that struck through her body.

Before Matt darted out of the room, she asked that he move her to the bed in the room, wanting at least some comfort to assist the paralysed body she was trapped in – whilst also using the opportunity to observe the authenticity of his condition. Meeting her expectation, the man showed no struggle in shifting her towards the bed, knowing perfectly where she needed to be.

***

As Matt hurried out of the sliding hospital doors, his nose tracked the scent of the cologne. The lingering scent attached itself to the air and the ground and the people all around. It guided a path, tracing along the streets, followed by Elektra’s smell – the same one that had filled his apartment earlier that morning. The calming smell, nostalgic in some ways, and sensual in others.

Keeping up the façade of the cane, Matt tracked the smell cautiously. He envisioned himself following a line, emitting a the scent with purple fumes. Yet, the more he could smell the devil, the more fixed the voice grew in his head.

“What’s your plan?” It asked incessantly. “For all the torment you’ve caused me, surely I need to face justice. But we both know, Matty, that justice will never come. Not true justice.”

Matt ignored the voice, shook it off as an irritating spectre following him around. He knew the nagging voice wanted to be fed, it craved his attention. For now, it was merely a voice riding the particles of cologne. To pay it any more attention was giving it power – and power was what Kilgrave craved. Control, manipulation.

Fear of letting anybody else manipulate or hurt him the way his parents had all those years ago.

Matt considered his fortune for a moment. The tale of his parents was tragic, the death of his mother, the murder of his father. The days of poverty and the nights of his fathers bloody wounds being tended to. But his father loved him. There was no malice or cruelty behind his father’s love, because it was sincere and true and powerful. Yet, Kilgrave faced the opposite. Kilgrave’s parents had lived well into old age, and yet haunted him like ghosts from the memories of his tortured childhood.

However, the tragedy of fathers was something Matt was counting on today. The rage a father could fuel in a boy’s heart. How that anger could fester and corrupt a man.

At the end of the road was a black SUV. It resonated with the scent of cleaning products, recently scrubbed clean and ridden of any evidence of any wrongdoing. Inside was the scent of a strong fibre material, and powerful cologne. A deep and slow voice spoke to the driver, whilst the adjustment to a suit sounded in Matt’s ears.

The SUV’s door opened as Matt approached it, and the ground beneath Matt trembled a tiny amount. The smallest vibration underneath his feet, whilst the heavy plodding of footsteps from a man ahead of Matt sounded.

“Wilson.” Matt nodded his head, smiling with gratitude. “Thank you.”

“Mr Murdock – there’s no need.” Wilson Fisk smiled as he patted his hefty and heavy hand on Matt’s back. “This was a long time coming – and you, Mr Murdock, are my friend. A dear and well-appreciated friend. Please, lead the way.”

***

As enemies turned to allies in the face of crisis, Matt led the way through the street. Fisk dared not to question the process, but watched with amazement and curiosity. How Matt was capable of such direction and skill seemed impossible, yet here it unfolded before his very eyes, with the minimal amount of effort required. Hidden beneath a façade of inability, disguised with a cane and glasses and a small sense of unfounded confusion.

Matt and Fisk shared little in terms of discussion. Fisk tried his hand at small talk, but swiftly found it suited neither of them as they navigated through the streets of Hell’s Kitchen. Instead, Fisk kept his eyes out and aware, cautious of anything that could happen.

It wasn’t long, a few blocks it felt, until Matt wandered down a desolate alleyway and found a cluster of garages kept in a small backstreet. Trashcans overflowed, graffiti lined the walls and litter poisoned the street, but Matt still managed to smell the cologne. Beyond the week’s worth of rotting food, the fresh layer of spray paint and the empty plastics tossed on the floor, was the continued trace of Kilgrave.

“Here?” Fisk wondered, a tone in his voice cautious as he spoke.

“I know his cologne too well, Wilson, he’s here.”

“But this belongs to Madam Gao.” Fisk spoke to himself aloud, staring curiously at the door. It had a recognisable pattern seared into it, only recognisable to him as he’d seen it various times in his exchanges to Madam Gao. “Wesley used to help with these exchanges.” A statement that unexpectedly erupted a pang of guilt from Matt.

Matt disregarded the statement, before wandering forward with seething rage. His ears caught onto Kilgrave’s voice, it tuned in his ear like a radio finding the correct station, slowly perfecting beyond the white noise of cars and shouting and the personal lives of the houses above.

Although, before Matt could dissect the voice from the background noise, his attention was drawn behind him. Matt could hear the shuffling inside, the quietened voice, the questions seeping out of Elektra as she expressed her panic beneath a calmly spoken lew of questions. But his attention was quickly drawn to the pattering of a stick hitting the stones of the alleyway – a noise that both he and Fisk could hear, as it quickly grew closer.

“I don’t know why you need a suit Matty, and I don’t know where you’re going to put it on-” A sudden thud sounded as a heavy case landed at Matt’s feet, missing his toes by a few inches. Stick stood before him, the general frustration and disappointment oozing from him making Matt feel comforted by the one constant in his life – the misery of Stick. “While you get changed, pray to that God of yours, because we’re finally going to kill that devil.”

*

Stick promptly sought out a better vantage point, whilst Matt changed into the suit crafted for his misdeeds in Fisk’s name. A clanging walking stick resonated through the street, the perfume of an elderly woman, overwhelmed by the cologne of two men. Rifles clasped in their hands, the sounds of bullets rattling inside catching Matt’s attention, before he heard the voice of Madam Gao interject.

“Mr Fisk – how unexpected.” She was sly and cunning as she spoke, and her cautious tone was met with a courteous response in Mandarin from Fisk. Yet, Madam Gao avoided indulging Fisk’s pleasantries. Instead, she continued her remark. “I hope you appreciate, much like you, meetings must be planned in advance.”

Fisk, intimated clearly by Gao, was flustered for a moment. Though his nervousness was cut short by Matt’s abrupt reply – like a knife through tension-saturated butter, he questioned, “How far back did you plan this meeting with Kilgrave?”

“Who?” Madam Gao instinctively lied, but nothing about her body told Matt it was a lie at all. In fact, were it not for the fact Kilgrave was waiting and hiding within Madam Gao’s property, he would’ve believed her.

“Don’t try it. You’re harbouring a criminal inside your property, breachi-”

“Please avoid relaying the law to me. I understand it very well. But I’m afraid, all you will find here is a simple routine inspection of a property I use for storage.” Gao turned her head towards Fisk, and smiled. Though her eyes were dark and menacing, telling a different, more frightening, story than her mouth or words. “Mr Fisk, I expect better from a man like you.”

“If Kilgrave is there, then we may have an issue.” Fisk stated coldly, his eyes locking with Gao’s.

“Is that so?” She grinned darkly, smirking cruelly. Smug and powerful, yet held together by a sense of wisdom and domination.

“Kilgrave has been a bane to me for far too long. I respect our alliance, but I fear you may have not.”

Gao cut Fisk an angry look, a discontent and betrayal. Unsatisfied by his persistence, Gao continued forwards. Matt listened with intent, unmoving as he kept his focus on her words and movements.

“Stay, and you will regret it. Have no doubt, your incredulity will face consequences. Your determination to interrupt my business will not be tolerated.” Once again, that same smile slithered across her face. “Leave, Mr Fisk and take Mr Murdock with you.”

Fisk stayed motionless, his eyes glanced between the two armed guards who followed Gao closely behind, before moving back to Matt. He considered how worth finding Kilgrave was – but he promptly recalled the night in his penthouse. The dark lights, the pain he endured. Never had a moment of such fear dredged him out from the persona of the tough Kingpin, and restored him to the child who stood over his father’s bleeding, dying body.

He envisioned his father now. That face, smashed and smothered in blood. The relief it felt in getting revenge. The delight in indulging in the dark side to restore order.

Fisk did not move.

Chapter Text

Time. Space. Reality.

The multiverse grows with every passing second, but here… here I see the march to death.

The infinite possibilities make these events unique, yet infinitely repetitive.

Death sits on the horizon, as this story returns to it’s start point.

***

The trio waited.

Silence resonated through the alleyway, as Wilson Fisk stood motionless. Replaying in his mind was the day he killed his father. He recalled the impulse and the thump and the feeling of broken bones and the thick goop of blood, as it stained his skin and clothes, dripping from his face.

Many times Matt had been in the presence of evil and hatred and fury, and although he’d never seen it cast upon a face, he could sense it. Unbeknownst to Matt, Fisk’s face was drenched in that very evil. Yet this time it wasn’t hidden in the darkness of the city, lit only slightly by the silver of the moonlight or the yellow glow of buzzing streetlamps. Instead, it was in full view, resting under the midday sunlight.

Matt turned his attention elsewhere, noticing the heavy breathing of Fisk as a mere indicator for the rage that nestled in his unhealthy heart. Tuned to his ears was Stick’s patient, low and quiet breathing. Perched like an eagle on a fire-escape high above, Stick waited. Beneath him, the metal creaked and clanged with a tiny hum, whilst Stick himself paid attention to the world around him.

Madam Gao’s voice rumbled from inside. It was soft and quiet, but there was a tone to it that kept Matt’s ears alert. Diverting his focus away from the elderly man crouched up high, and the frozen, furious man before him, Matt instead began to calculate their entrance.

Two guards stationed at the entrance. The clanging of metal from their guns, as the bullets clambered around inside, gave it away. Footsteps sounded from inside too, yet their heartbeats were absent. He caught the sound of six pairs of footsteps, but very few beating hearts to compliment them. Dismissing those concerns, he focused elsewhere.

“Can you hear me? Smell me? Sense me?” Wondered the arrogance of Kilgrave’s lingering voice from the back of Matt’s mind. “It’s amazing. You’re obsessed with me.” Matt felt his hands tremble slightly, whilst his heart pounded in his chest. For months he’d been followed by the dark voice of Kilgrave, following and commenting, but the scent of cologne and the reality of the situation forced an emotion that Matt barely understood. It was fear and rage blended together. Horror and sorrow. “We’re going to have so much fun, Matthew.”

Matt ignored the voice.

He winced and shoved it deep inside his mind, shutting figurative doors on it as a means of an escape. But, much like any door, there were ways to open it. As Matt continued forward, calculating the route they should take, he could feel the banging of the door deep inside. Clawing against the door, the desire to be relentlessly free.

“How should we approach this, Mr Murdock?” Fisk asked, his low grumbling voice resonating in Matt’s as he slowly came to stand beside him. There was a panic and a flutter in Matt’s heart, caused by the unprompted snap transition from listening to the small quiet sounds invisible to the normal ear to the rumbling voice of a man he slightly hated.

“Stick will keep the high ground. Follow us in afterwards.” Matt stated, thinking for a moment. “There’s two guards by the entrance, we could easily take them out.”

“Still remains the question of how we get in.” Fisk’s heartbeat was noticeably calm. No slight racing to it, no fear or panic, or even doubt. Calm, collected, casual. “Detonating the entrance would be the easiest way inside.”

“Ignoring the lack of explosives, cops would swarm the building within five minutes. Neither of us want that.” There was a flicker to his heartbeat. A slight and eager jump, triggered by a moment of excitement by an emerging prospect.

Fisk told Matt to wait a moment, whilst his heavy footsteps stormed through the alleyway. Matt listened curiously, splitting his attention between a car door slam and Fisk’s fingers smacking his phone’s keyboard, and the voices inside the building. The clinging of bullets inside rifles, the breathes and cologne and chatter and laughter and footsteps.

Without a word uttered, Fisk strolled past Matt. There was a quiet ticking from a package in his hand. A small ringing, instantly alerting Matt of the reality. An explosive. A bomb. Something to blow open the doors and instantly take out the guards securely positioned inside like frozen knights.

Returning to his side, Fisk’s low voice rumbled once again. Deep and quiet and delightfully devilish. “Our entry and two guards have been attended to, Mr Murdock.” Matt, although fascinated and curious, decided to avoid asking questions. He instead sighed and listened, blocking out Fisk’s question of what their next step should be.

“They’re downstairs. Roughly four flights of stairs.” Matt stated, his ears tuned to the noises. Boots slamming against the metallic steps, resonating throughout the stairwell. “Six guards there, Gao, Kilgrave and Elektra. There are another fifteen guards scattered around the building too.”

“I assume you’re intending to go in with brute force.” Nodding his head, Matt envisioned the hulking body of Fisk slamming around the guards. “Our objective is just to get rid of Kilgrave. Whatever objective you and the gentleman up there have, are secondary.”

Matt thought about Elektra. Beating in his heart, contrasting the calm rhythmic beating of Fisk’s, was panic. The realisation that Elektra was in danger, but as Fisk’s lapdog he had no choice in rescuing her first. Instead, he had to rid of Kilgrave.

Nails clawed against the door at that very thought, bursting to escape.

The pair decided on a plan.

Their decision to blow apart the entrance was enough of a tactic to stop whatever plan the Hand had formulated. Instantly, Fisk and Matt would be issues to rectify. Targets to rid of. Yet all-guns-blazing was counterintuitive to Matt’s mission. He’d found solace in the dark of the night, shadows casted over him, shielding himself from the sight of his enemies – so the explosive was to be detonated afterwards.

Fisk approached the door first, knocked on it to draw at least one to his attention. His fist pounded the metal, resonating loudly throughout the backstreet. Promptly, the hinge of the metallic door followed the pounding fist, and Fisk stood face-to-face with both of the guards. Their eyes blankly, bluntly, furiously fixed on him.

However, there was little time for Fisk to interject or improvise, as his ears abruptly rang with the piercing of the air. An arrow shot down from up high, perfectly timed and aimed to slice through both guards heads.

The eruption of blood was dragged to the ground, as the men’s bodies collapsed instantly. Not a word had been spoken by the time their lifeless bodies thumped against the ground. Their eyes glazed over, drowned in blood as the floor and clothes stained with the fresh crimson.

Fisk swivelled around and looked towards Matt, whose ears had picked up on the shuffling of his clothes.

Matt jolted forward, and swept through the corridors and staircases with profound elegance. There was no doubting he was professional, with the sad irony being that he couldn’t bear witness to the pure mastery he enacted – yet he could feel it. The coldness of the metal railings slid in his hands, whilst the hard peeling walls shot against his feed.

Matt’s senses tuned into the fine details of the labyrinth he jolted through. Together they painted a clear picture, shifting with each heartbeat and clang of metal. Every movement and sound and scent formed an image. A painting morphed together, only experienced by Matt.

His lethal grace guided him through the shadows, bringing him to the top of the staircase.

At the base were six guards. The painting was vivid in his mind. Three paced around, shifting the colours and paint strokes constantly, but three were motionless. Their boots creaking slightly with a few movements, but nothing beyond that.

Whilst Matt’s view of the world was a canvas, struck my paintings, his movements were like music. Although once amateur when improvised, now seemingly expert. With Fisk at his side, the unlikeliest of musicians, their movements form a duet. Dually dancing through the action, as Matt swivelled round the railings and whacked a half of his cane across the face of a pacing guard.

Storming in behind him, Fisk crafted a symphony. Together, Matt’s agility complimented the brute force of Fisk. As Matt finessed his way around the base of the stairwell, knocking the guards around with the thick metallic edges of his cane, Fisk thrust aside their weapons and cracked the bones of the men. Each snapped bone or pounding of flesh resonated in Matt’s ear, gruesome and unnerving.

Within seconds, the skirmish had ended. Fisk’s fists were blurs of motions, grabbing guards by collars and slamming them against the walls, crushing bones and tearing clothes. As one guard launched himself at Fist, his fist was caught mid-air. It twisted. The bone let out a sickening crack, dispelling any power behind the punch.

Meanwhile Matt’s batons whipped their air, throwing weapons across the floors and smacking the guards across the temples. Unconscious within moments.

Matt needn’t to speak. His quiet and breathless panting was noise enough, but his hands gestured towards Fisk before he set off. Fisk stared curiously, before he noticed where Matt’s baton centred on.

Clutched in his hand still was the detonation for the explosive device still strapped to the door. Despite the encore of combat, the door and explosive remained intact. No detonation had blown the building’s door away, but now they needed exactly that.

Fisk began to hide away the six bodies of guards, lugging them over his shoulders like weightless ragdolls, before dumping them into a small-cluttered corner that would go unnoticed to the naked eye – especially in the panicked frenzy of an explosive.

*

Once the pair had got into position, the ringing of the explosive pierced the air. The crumbling of rocks, shattering of windowpanes, trembling of car alarms were only the aftermath. They were mere consequences, but the explosive itself had shrieked through the air, burrowing deep within the eardrums of Matt and Fisk.

Promptly, as they had expected, the guards of the Hand flocked to the explosive. Like moths enamoured by a flame, they flurried up the stairwell and raced towards the entrance. It crumbled before them, making it dangerous in some capacity, but their key task was finding and eliminating the source. Unaware, of course, they had fled past those culprits.

Once the coast seemed clear, and the voices of Gao and Kilgrave and Elektra exhibited panic from within, Matt signalled for Fisk to follow. The pathway was pretty much just a few corridors, which were – by this point – Matt’s speciality in navigating.

Hoping that Stick was able to deal with ensuing chaos above, Matt headed straight in.

Despite a resonating terror, Elektra was his beacon. No matter what would happen, he needed to ensure she was safe. That she was shining with the beautiful glimmer of hope and life.

There was no particular way to describe the room. It was empty. Dimly lit. Vast. It was peppered with only a few people. Kilgrave’s cologne infiltrated the air, Elektra’s gentle breaths resonated in his ears, eight guards clanking metal signalled their presence, as well as the disconcerting and stoic presence of Madam Gao. Yet their metal were not guns, but instead smooth and resonating sleets of metal. Swords clasped firmly in their grips.

“Kilgrave, hand her over.” Demanded Matt, his voice echoing through the vast and empty room. Something in the centre of the room resonated with his voice, whilst the faint sounds of blowing candles signalled their presence.

“How quaint, you bought a friend!” Kilgrave expelled with a mockingly endearing tone. “But we don’t have time for pleasantries.”

“We’re not here for pleasantries,” Fisk interjected, controlling himself to keep a range away from Kilgrave.

The guards declared something proud and loud to Gao, whose crinkling of her jacket sleeve suggested she had raised her hand to bring their voices to a halt.

She did not move, nor did her heartbeat flicker. In fact, all she did was shout back to Kilgrave. “Why are you here then? I warned you both of the consequences.”

“To save Elektra.”

“To kill that devil.”

Fisk and Matt’s clear disagreement didn’t severe any alliance they had. There was a satisfying truth as they admitted it both, not quite caring about the other’s reason for they were on the same wavelength.

“Very well.” Gao began to wander towards Elektra, her calm and demeaning smile carried a heavy expression. Joy, patience, rage, sadism. Emotions mixing and merging, as her cheeks pushed up and her eyes stayed fixed. “I assume Stick has told you about the war.” Gao commented, veering the discussion aside.

“Vaguely.” Matt replied cautiously, having only really understood a war between factions seething through the streets of Hell’s Kitchen.

“Has he ever told you who we are.”

“The Hand.” Elektra interrupted calmly, trying to mask her panic under a settled soothing voice.

“And the Hand worship a weapon… Called the Black Sky.”

Matt, uncertain of the purpose nor the reason of what Gao was telling him, paid cautious attention of Gao. “So what?”

Matt could hear the slight chuckle. The calm, arrogant chuckle. Nothing but an indication that Matt had asked the wrong question, but the moment to rectify the question was lost. Gao turned her attention towards Kilgrave, and with a calm and powerful voice, simply stated: “Free the girl.”

Three simple words, followed instantly by a man who wore control like an old piece of jewellery he couldn’t rid of for sentimental reasons.

Elektra felt herself fall free, pushed forward as Kilgrave ordered for her to, “Be free, just don’t hurt me.” His voice was quiet but resonated in Matt’s ears loud enough.

“Stay there for a moment, Elektra.” Instructed Gao, her calm and serious tone freezing Elektra. Despite the reluctant release of Kilgrave’s influence, she had somehow fallen prey to Gao’s orders. But these were not the works of abilities or infections, but down to Gao’s presentation of herself.

“I have no ill-will towards you, Madam Gao. But that man-”

Fisk’s voice was promptly cut off by Gao, whose quiet voice swiftly interjected. “That man has travelled the world to help me. I don’t quite care if he hunted you down with a washed up vigilante and made you feel small, Wilson. He is our ally.”

“An ally, who only really wants to live happily alone and quietly with the woman he loves.” Kilgrave commented further, his mind fixed on Jessica.

“He’s a dangerous weapon.”

Gao laughed. Wisdom merged with arrogance. “Kilgrave is a tool. A means to an end. The weapon… the weapon is something else.”

“Stop!” Matt blurted out impatiently. “Kilgrave needs to be imprisoned, and whatever you’re planning needs to be put to an end.”

“That mindset was what brought you here, Mr Murdock.” Gao stated, now pacing backwards her wooden cane hitting the ground with each step. “Had you not met Kilgrave that night, you would have found the information eventually, I’m sure. But you cheated your way through. You blundered in, no clue what was happening and made things worse. Have you ever wondered, what if? What if you didn’t meet Kilgrave that night? What if somebody else saved you? What if nobody at all saved you?”

“We don’t need to know what’s going on – you’re harbouring a criminal. A demon.”

“I’m afraid, Mr Murdock, I was not the first.” She spoke cryptically, running her hands along a stone material. “Wilson, describe this room for Mr Murdock, since he is unfortunate to be gifted with the beauty of the world.”

Fisk stuttered, following Gao’s instruction as Matt nodded his head. Fisk paused, glanced around the room, before beginning to explain. “Well, there’s a few… ninjas, Kilgrave, Gao, your lady friend, Elektra. There’s a big stone coffin, with a symbol on the front, and some candles and bowls around it.”

Gao thanked Fisk, bowing her head with respect. “The Black Sky was stolen, Mr Murdock. A long time ago. But explaining the situation will only upset and confuse you. Let me show you in action.” A phrase unknown to Matt escape Gao’s tongue, and although he could not translate it, there was no doubting it was an instruction.

Matt’s ears attempted to make sense of the situation, but the grunting and pounding and collisions of fists and metal against the floor disorientated him. Elektra had burst with an unexpected fit of rage, born from protection and persistence. She shot across the eight guards, at a speed and of reflexes almost unnatural. Animalistic in nature, but also so perfectly skilled and previsioned, that it bore no resemblance to the brutality of most animals.

Elektra was overcome, almost possessed, with an uncontrollable nature. Her fists slammed against the temples of the ninjas, before gripping onto the closest available swords or daggers and swiftly using them in the killing of the next. Flesh slicing mixed with the sound of swords and metals ringing through the air. She ducked and swivelled and spun. Her eyes calculated each movement, absorbing information from all around her, soaking every detail in like a sponge. Retaining each fact and movement and skill for the next action she took.

Blood began to stain the ground as Elektra jolted across, the ringing of swords slicing the air, failed to make any collision, but it was all bought to a halt when Matt jolted across the room and clasped onto Kilgrave by the neck.

Matt, within moments, clicked a small button on the side of his helmet, releasing a small built-in covering to protect him from Kilgrave’s virus.

Kilgrave laughed as he fell into Matt’s grip, “Oh look, you’ve gone full superhero!”

“Call your men off!” Matt’s muffled voice sounded just as the final grunt of the final man was let out. His actions were too late enacted, as an unorganised pile of eight ninjas surrounded Elektra, neatly murdered around her. Matt tilted his head, confounded and confused.

“The Black Sky.” Gao stated, impressed and amazed. She stood from afar, focused solely on Elektra.  The very words sent a shiver down Elektra’s spine, and Matt watched intently. “You harboured the real devil, Mr Murdock.”

“I’m not a-”

“Not yet, dear.” Gao interjected once again, dismissing the rage and the fire in Elektra’s voice. “No, we need you dead first.” Gao clapped her hands, the clapping resonating across the vast emptiness for a moment, until footsteps sounded from the shadows. Matt listened carefully, but failed to find a breath or a heartbeat.

But that smell now hit him. He’d ignored that stench, the second cologne and beading sweat.

“Finally, the Black Sky is returned.”

“Nobu…” Matt commented quietly, shocked and confused. His mind racing back to months prior, when he had slain Nobu. The night he met Kilgrave. The night the world was tainted by corruption and darkness.

“Watching you fight… Fiery, methodical, precise, heartless, cruel. I have no doubt.”

“I’m not the Black Sky. The Black Sky is just some mythological shit you lot convinced yourself of.”

Nobu and Gao laughed, slowly approaching Elektra.

“Touch her and I’ll kill him.”

“Very well.” Gao’s eyes locked with Matt’s expression. Although technically not staring at each other, they were locked in a stalemate. Frozen together, ready to pounce and fight and argue and combat.

Semantics and technicalities were something Matt had found himself familiar with. Law school had taught him that the justice system was played and manipulated by men, who saw words as tools. Pieces of a larger machine. Malleable.

Although, it was something he was very quickly shown. Because neither Madam Gao nor Nobu touched Elektra.

Matt considered a loophole once he heard the words escape the vile jaw of the devil. Venom, incurable, spouted from the tip of the serpent’s tongue. A single instruction for Elektra, to end her life right there and then. Even though captured in his arms, Kilgrave succeeded in using his powers. “Stab yourself.”

And, like every other victim of Kilgrave, she had no choice. Impulse drove logic. Compulsion overridden by inhibition. Fog filled the mind of Elektra, as action seized control of her.

A dagger pierced her stomach. Her own dagger, clasped in her very own hands, swirled through her stomach at a violent pace, allowing for the gushing of oozing blood to ensue. Elektra’s dying eyes burst with life as they locked onto Matt, whose paralysed self only listened to the fleshly slicing and the gushing blood and the fading heartbeat.

Releasing Kilgrave from his clutches, Matt darted across towards the body of Elektra. Simultaneously, Fisk charged towards Kilgrave, his hulking presence taking the form of a rhinoceros, darting towards it’s prey with little thought.

Matt held onto Elektra, feeling her pulse fading slowly. His ears tuned into her breathes, the time between each growing larger by each moment.

Elektra laughed gently. “I suppose this… was bound to happen. The Black Sky… is my destiny.”

“No – Elektra, Destiny isn’t real. We can do something. Fisk – help us!” Matt’s voice pleaded with fear and terror. His hands trembled, his voice quivering, his love dying. Matt brushed his hand through her hair, before running his hands across her cheek. He felt the smoothness of her face, even through the armoured gloves that he’d adorned. He pictured her face in his mind from the faint glimpses of sight from his childhood. Matt begged and pleaded and cried, ignoring the eight corpses that surrounded him.

But it was too late.

Matt swivelled around. His mind swiftly ignored Gao and Nobu standing not too far from him, as he felt the clawing of the door in his mind grow louder and harder. The door chipped and rage burst through as he charged towards Kilgrave. A dagger clasped in his hand, stained but sharp, perfectly ready to bring Matt’s horror full circle.

Yet, Matt froze. He stood just before Kilgrave. The devil himself. He heard his voice in his mind, teasing him. He felt the jeering smile written across Kilgrave’s face.

“Could you really do it, Matthew?” Asked Kilgrave, this time his voice was real. It was tangible soundwaves in the air, resonating in his ears. Voice vibrating deep into his head. “Could you actually watch me die?”

Matt hesitated.

He hated the fact he hesitated.

Behind him, he could only imagine the motionless curiosity of Gao and Nobu, as they watched with intrigue what would happen next. Fascinated to see how the Devil’s of Hell’s Kitchen escaped the clutches of a nighttime vigilante and a brutish hulking entrepreneur.

“You – you’ve ruined my life. You’ve destroyed everything I ever had. You’ve killed Elektra, pushed my friends away from me – but what’s worse…” Matt slowly pulled his hands towards the side of his helmet, pressing the button to catch his breath and speak without the muffled fabric between his mouth and the air. “You’ve rooted yourself in my mind.”

“Obsession doesn’t look good on you.” Kilgrave smirked, his eyes locked onto Matt. He didn’t even twitch or move or react as Fisk tightened his grip. “I unlocked your potential. I made you powerful. I changed your fucking life in a way you could never understand. I-  I am your ally. Your mentor. I am the only man in your life who will ever make you see the way you truly are. Not even your own father could do that.” Kilgrave spat on the ground. “And now you’re here, with Wilson Fisk and a dead girlfriend, and the police ready to crawl around outside. So, I ask you again, could you really kill me?”

Before Matt could answer, or even react, a loud and deafening gunshot filled the vast and empty room. It reverberated through the space, it’s violent sound filling the dark and unlit areas. The sound rang through Matt’s ears, bringing nothing but a terrible pain to him.

Chapter Text

Time.

It’s strange how you perceive it in such a linear way, unaware of it’s intricacies. Unaware of how the future bleeds into the past and how the present traverses between them.

***

Stood before a podium, faced with flashing cameras and anxious journalists and shaking microphones, were two towering figures. Both wore the face of stern and calculated seriousness, their eyes scanning the crowd with a quiet and imposing confidence.

Donning a pristine and immaculate white suit, Wilson Fisk stared proudly through the crowd. His eyes glanced down at a few scattered notes for the speech he was about to deliver, but most of it rattled around his mind. Like any good aspiring-politician, he retained the knowledge safely in his mind. Untainted by advisors or writers.

Beside him stood Mariah Dillard, a poised and charismatic councilwoman from Harlem. Her blue dress was fitted to her perfectly. Hair perfectly styled, pearls dangling around her neck, eyes gleaming with pride and preparedness.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Fisk finally spoke as he adjusted a microphone, staring out into the crowd with a solemn and determined expression. “Today, we stand at a crossroads in the history of our great city. Not too long ago, I stood before Hell’s Kitchen and told the world about my encounter with Kilgrave. But today, I stand before you to tell you of a new terror that has risen in our streets. Because our streets are tainted. Our city is corrupted. The Avengers stand on high, and while they saved us, people believed they had a new opportunity to express the evil and anger and violence that is rooted deep in their hearts.”

As every eye fixed on Fisk, the room fell deafly silent. Besides clicking cameras, nothing moved nor made a sound. Fisk’s expression went unchanged, as he turned his head to focus on another area of the crowd. "Vigilantes! Civilians who have decided to operate outside of the law. Who have decided the incredible work of our officers, who have trained endlessly, is not enough. Who believe justice can be taken without accountability. Vigilantes have risen and have woven themselves into the fabric of our very city. Their actions endanger innocent lives and undermine the rule of law that holds our society together."

Dillard, beside Fisk, nodded her head, adjusting her microphone before stepping forward. “We have seen this ourselves, in Harlem. A single man sauntered through gun and drug stashes, donning nothing but a hoodie, and has decided to take the law into his own hands. Whilst we may be tempted to thank this man, for trying to protect our streets, this is not order that he brings. This is chaos, anarchy even. In a place like Harlem, where we already have wavering trust in our police, we cannot have an unregulated man undermining the due process, leaving a trail of destruction in our community."

She paused, letting her words sink in. “We cannot allow this anarchy to continue. This man has exposed the underlying issues of crime in our city, which we may thank him for. But we cannot, and must not, thank him for degrading our trust in the police. We need to restore order and ensure that justice is served through the proper channels.”

Dillard glanced back to Fisk, nodding her head, almost as though passing back a baton of conversation. Fisk’s glaring eyes turned back across the crowd.

“We will not stand idly by while our city is torn apart by these so-called heroes! Together, Councilwoman Dillard and I are launching a new initiative to tackle and dismantle this crisis of vigilantism. With the assistance of law enforcement and community leaders and every law-abiding citizen, we will reclaim our city. Here in Harlem, and in Hell’s Kitchen!”

An immediate applause thundered through the room, as enthusiasm and joy and pride clamoured together for noise and excitement.

*

“Matthew?” Unexpectedly, the voice of a woman caught Matt’s attention. The faint buzzing of the TV from another room tuned itself out from his earshot, as he focused back on the quiet humming of the lights above. Fading out of his attention, Fisk’s passionate speech continued. Instead, Matt’s attention zoned into the voice of the woman sat opposite him – whose voice barely matched the empowered fury of Wilson Fisk. “Is something the matter?” She asked calmly, the tapping of her pen against her notebook irritating Matt slightly.

“No,” Matt responded quietly, preferring to drown out the tapping noise with the sound of his voice. The rumbling through his jaw comforting him slightly. “Not exactly – sorry, what were we saying?”

“You were talking about the death of your friend.” The woman smiled faintly, though to her knowledge such an expression was futile. Often, smiling was a reassurance technique, but Matt had no need of such visual cues. For a moment, as Matt had felt his boiling blood settle from the voice of Wilson Fisk, he had almost forgotten the real warmth of blood. He had forgotten its consistency as it stained his hand, and the foul smell and residing taste of iron that lingered in the air and on his hands.

“Stab yourself.” The voice of Kilgrave repeated itself for a moment, toying with him as he recalled the events of three week prior. Ringing with power, that rattled around his mind, tainting his thoughts like the blood that stuck to his hands as he clasped onto Elektra’s body.

“These experiences you have faced, Matthew, are bound to bring up strong emotions. But discussing them is important, so long as it is at your pace.” The woman reached for her glasses, the plastic clicking together as she folded them and placed them next to her. Matt could feel her eyes burning onto him, watching cautiously. “Tell me about your friend – how did you meet?”

Matt paused. Bristling in his mind was a party, her voice and smell. The alcohol, the night they had. He grinned at the thought, before recalling the events to the woman. There was a glimmer in his voice, a calm and serene, tainted slightly by a growing grief that blackened his heart.

As Matt quietened at the end of the story, he took a deep sigh. His hands feeling warm as they remembered the sensation of being stained with thick gooping blood.

“You said… there was an altercation.” Cautiously, the woman mentioned the situation with such vagueness, that Matt barely recognised the situation. Considering the lines of bodies that sat along the entrance of the building, stashed away beneath the stairs, littered around the corpse of Elektra, there were many instances of altercations.

“The Devil?” Matt wondered, his voice low and quiet as it flashed with the voice of Kilgrave.

“Although I appreciate these views are coping mechanisms, they disassociate the abuser from the reality.”

Matt hesitated, reluctantly responding, “Kilgrave?”

The woman nodded her head. “This altercation with Kilgrave, how did it end?”

Matt paused, flashing in his mind was the teasing and the arrogance of Kilgrave. The mention of his father, the flash of pure fury that seethed through his veins. “I shouted at Kilgrave. He– He said something about my dad. He mentioned Fisk and my alliances and my choices and my morals.” Matt clenched his eyes shut and tried to focus his mind on the day. The woman waited, seizing the moment of silence to let Matt compose himself and his thoughts. “Then there was a gunshot…”

The woman rifled through her notebook promptly, before glancing up towards Matt. “That was where you got up to last time. You couldn’t say what happened next. You didn’t want to.” She spoke softly once again, trying her best to pave a direction of discussion, without forcing Matt’s hand in either way. “Who fired the gun?” She asked curiously, her voice carrying no sense of expectation.

***

A body collapsed. Matt’s ears searched for whose body it was, almost frantically using his senses to determine the answer, but he struggled at first. He heard Kilgrave’s strained breaths, and Fisk’s heavy, steady breathing. But the gushing blood that seeped out of Elektra’s body sounded further than before.

It sounded closer to the collapsing body, which now, as he paid attention, was that of Nobu’s.

“Drop her, Gao.” Stick demanded calmly, his voice carrying the rage of a father and the determination of a warrior.

“I do not fear you, Stick.” Gao replied, her expression and tone remaining impassive. “The Black Sky is ours now.”

“She was never the Black Sky. You dipshits put too much stock on all that mythical bullcrap and it got you nowhere.” Disdain laced his voice, his mind racing through the work he had put into his role. He considered the blood that stained his hand and the heavy weight of guilt that burdened his shoulders

“Yet, she bore the signs. Uncontrollable and powerful.”

“Where do you plan on going?” Matt interjected the conversation, storm towards them. “We’ve swarmed the street with cops. There’s no way out.”

“Of course.” Gao bowed her head, before lowering the body of Elektra and sitting down. Still and silent, she waited. Unmoved and unphased, she watched blankly as Stick and Matt stood awkwardly. Her posture was held as serene and unyielding, while an unnervingly confident expression rest across her face. “The world of men is blood and violence. The world of humanity is much the same. But I know of patience. Patience triumphs.”

“Stick, deal with her for a moment.” Matt and Stick shared a palpable confusion, whilst burdened with a sense of urgency of fatigue. Whilst Matt returned to the Kilgrave issue, which quite literally was clutched in the hands of Fisk’s fist, he paid little attention Stick and Gao’s interaction. Seething with rage, he considered it only futile to continue paying attention.

However, as Matt regained his bearings, his ears caught the voice of Gao, replying to something Stick had said to her. “Do what you will, Stick, my role for now is complete. She was destined for this, and you cannot change fate.”

Matt stood over Kilgrave. He felt as though he towered over him, feeling a rage consume him. Sin washed over him, in action and in thought. It gnawed away at his heart, corrupting him. Whether Kilgrave was really the embodiment of the Devil or not, it didn’t quite matter. Meeting the man had tainted his heart, changed him. His heart blackened without a doubt.

“Tell me…” Matt struggled to speak, as his mind raced with the attempt to find the words. “Why did you choose Jessica?” Something about asking Kilgrave a simple question provoked a tremor in his hands. The pounding in his chest was unbearable, each beat shrieking in his ears.

Fisk tried to interrupt, positing that it wasn’t the time, but Matt rejected his suggestions.

Feeling the tight pull of his collar choking him slightly, Kilgrave stammered. The answer was lost to years of obsession, rooted somewhere deep inside of him. “I love her.”

“A monster like you couldn’t love anything.” Fisk growled, his eyes staring down with fury.

“And a monster like you love can?” Kilgrave grinned as he reared his head towards Kilgrave, choking slightly as the rage of the mere hint of his love for Vanessa being besmirched tightened his grip. Matt intervened, hearing the creaking fabric and tightening grip. “I love her. And she loves me. I will protect her, I will always protect her.”

“But why her?” Matt pressed further, sensing a confusion in Kilgrave’s hesitance to answer. “Half the population of the world are women, but you chose the one who conveniently lived in my city. The city you found me. Bleeding. Bruised. Dying. You used me. Kept me hostage and made me listen to you abuse my friend. And then… and then, even when we thought it was over, you escaped, and it came back to me.”

A laugh, arrogant and cruel, escaped Kilgrave’s mouth. “So self-conceited, Matthew.”

“But you’ve ruined everything in my life! You can’t tell me it wasn’t intentional.”

“That’s a question for your God. The man in the sky, with the plans. The man who controls fate and destiny. The man who watches, never intervening.” Kilgrave paused, the words settling amongst them for a minute. “In fact, why don’t you ask him when you go to confess away these sins. Confess away your guilt – your part in Elektra’s death. Your part in letting Fisk grow his empire. Your part in the Hand winning their war. That’s the problem with you and you those with that holier-than-thou mindset – you expect someone else to carry your weight.”

Slithering into Matt’s mind, Kilgrave’s words were taunting and relentless. Each word uttered like a thorn of barbed wire, piercing his conscience, edging him closer to the rage which was bristled deep down within him.

The seething rage that grew from the day he lost his vision, the night he lost his father, the day Stick abandoned him, the terror Elektra provoked in him, the atrocities he had stopped.

The clawing cruelty of Kilgrave resisted restraints. It had burrowed deep within Matt, now throwing his sense of control over himself away. He felt his fists clench and unclench, trying to ignore the darkness.

“I carry my guilt.” Matt quietly replied, a deep unsettling tone following as he did. “You ignore your guilt.”

Kilgrave sneered, letting out a small chuckle. “You think you’re better than me.” There was a poison in his whisper, the raspy breathy voice creeping into Matt’s mind. “But deep down, is a hypocrite. A sinner. A killer.” Kilgrave stared up towards Matt, a goading grin growing across his face. Sadistic glee pleasuring something deep inside him. “Matthew, let me show you… Do it, prove me right. Show yourself what you really are and kill me.”

Short, sharp bursts of breath followed a tightening of his jaw. He felt his twitching fingers curl into a fist, feeling the raw power coursing through him, the urge to comply. Violence and murder and rage. He felt the compulsion, the unfounded instinct, the indescribable impulse. The instruction resonated deep within his mind and he felt time slow down.

Flashing in his mind was the trauma and terror. Karen and Jessica and Foggy and Fisk.

Kilgrave waited. The instruction given was a death wish, but he had long accepted his fate. At least, with his final breaths, he showed Matthew Murdock the truth.

As Matt’s breath shuddered, Kilgrave braced for it. He took a deep breath and shut his eyes, but a second passed into two and then into five and then into ten. Opening his eyes, he watched as Matt stepped back. Falling to his sides, his fists unclenched. “No – I won’t become like you.”

***

“Overcoming Kilgrave’s powers is something you should be proud of, Matt.” The woman smiled, once again its visual reassurance lost on Matt. “Was it something you were aware of being capable of?” Matt shook his head, muttering no as he did so. “So, why did you take of the mouth covering?”

Her intrigue had dabbled into a question Matt didn’t quite know the answer of. He reflected upon the choice, the chaos of the moment, the intimacy of the rage. He reconciled with the thought, before letting out a slightly deep sigh.

“It was a surrender.” Matt confessed, reeling his head to face hers. “I was ready to let him do whatever he wanted, because I knew it was bound to happen.

“And so that feeling… when he told you to kill him and you didn’t. How did that feel?”

Matt paused once again. The feeling rooted inside him somewhere, a warm comfort in a dark glimmer.

***

Matt felt liberty. He felt agency and control as he took another step back. His breath resumed, his trembling began to calm. He caught the sound of Kilgrave’s panicked heartbeat. Confusion and terror. An immunity fostered in Matt, one that he had thought he had found a resistance to months prior when Jessica confessed her love to him.

“Mathew…” Kilgrave spoke with a genuine sense of terror, finally feeling out of his depth. Before him was an enemy, a man he had hurt, with an agency he had not permitted. “Listen to me – step forward.” Matt didn’t. Matt froze, he smirked. “Matthew – listen to me you bastard! Are you really going to side with Fisk? The man you told me you wanted to find. You wanted to make pay. The man is a liar – he is the devil. He may trick you with his love for this city and his love for that woman, but it’s all a façade. He will be the dea-”

Without warning, Kilgrave’s voice was struck off. Matt could hear a fist clench itself around Kilgrave throat, whilst another hand grabbed his head and yanked it back.

By the time Matt had leapt forward to prevent the roaring of rage, Kilgrave’s head was shattered against the floor. A sickening crunch echoed throughout the vast and empty room, whilst a display of blood created a haunting scene.

Matt’s blindness may have been a blessing in some way, as a grotesque cruel smile rested on Kilgrave’s limp body. The brutality was instant, but it’s impact left imprinted on the remnants.

Fisk panted heavily, as he reeled back from the raw and primal rage that had seized him. He glanced over towards Matt, noticing that horror had struck his face. His eyes locked on the masked vigilante. Matt was disgusted, but for a heartbeat, they shared an understanding. The drag down the dark pit of rage had taken Fisk as it’s victim, as he was drawn into the pit of sin.

Matt’s voice trembled, “You- You didn’t have to do that. I resisted him – there was a solution!”

“It didn’t matter that you were resistant, Mr Murdock. Your friend is dead, because of his powers. That would’ve been one of us if we let him carry on speaking. I needed to do what had to be done.” Fisk’s expression softened slightly, but his eyes still expressed a hard and heavy fury.

“No, we are supposed to better than this.” Matt shook his head in rejection, his voice quiet and shaken.

“Better? We celebrated when the Avengers destroyed Aliens – when they slayed monsters. Mr Murdock, that is what we have just done. We did better. We did something heroic.” Fisk’s glare was unyielding and furious. He reached out his hand, soaked in blood, and took Matt’s by a tight grip. Both stained in blood. “I’ll clear things upstairs, give you and that gentleman enough time to get away.”

***

Fading away, the sounds of the outside world began to leave his attention. A deep breath grounded him in the moment, facing the reality of the room. A therapist’s office, paid for privately by the pockets of Fisk. The room scented with lavender and resonating with a muted hum of the city and lights and the world.

He could hear a man confessing his mother’s alcoholism in the room down the corridor, a girl admitting she had a crush on another girl in her school, a grandad admitting an affair on his wife. But all of that subsided, as his memory of the night began to cease in importance.

“Matt,” Her soft voice tethered him to safety, her smile audible now. “You’re safe here. No one can harm you.”

Nodding his head, Matt began to trace his fingers along the armrest, focusing on the intricacies of it’s textures. “I know…” Matt’s voice was barely louder than a whisper, barely sounds escaping his lips. “But I just can’t make sense of it– It just– How could–”

As Matt began to question at a fast rate, the woman leant forward, compassion toning her voice as she urged, “Calm down. Let’s take it one step at a time. You mentioned Kilgrave’s voice. Does it still haunt you?”

With a quiet word, Matt admitted it. “I haven’t heard it much since that night, but it wasn’t his voice… It was the rage I felt.”

“You have suffered a significant and traumatising event. Often, we manifest coping mechanisms to understand our emotions. Anger – anger is normal. But what’s important, is that you resisted the real Kilgrave. That is a demonstration of you. What you are capable of.”

Matt sighed, a weight still dragging him down. “But then Fisk... he killed him. Just like that. And for a moment, I understood why. For a moment, I envied him for making that choice.” Despite a horror and shame that slithered into Matt’s mind as he confessed those feelings, he didn’t feel the woman’s judgement. Instead, he heard the crinkle of her mouth with a reassuring smile.

“It’s okay to feel conflicted about these events. It’s human. You were freed from suffering – but what matters is what you do with those feelings. How you move forward in your own life, in your own actions.”

Matt closed his eyes, taking another deep breath. The vivid image of Kilgrave’s death, the sound of his skull cracking, began to fade, replaced by the steady rhythm of his own heartbeat.  

“I don’t want to be like them. Fisk, Kilgrave... I have to be better. For Elektra, for the city, for myself.”

The woman sighed with a heavy realisation, as her eyes noticed their time had drawn to a close. She thanked Matt, expressed her pride, before resting her hand on his shoulder. “Next time, I think it’s important that we discuss what happened after. Because your loss of Stick… it isn’t something you have mentioned yet.”

*

As Matt wondered out of the room, the news repeated Fisk’s speech once again. The buzzing of the TV played the sounds once again, as Fisk proclaimed the statement, “We need to restore order and ensure that justice is served through the proper channels!”

Finally, they agreed.

Chapter Text

“For fuck’s sake Jessica! Is it too much to ask that you show your own shitty feelings? What happened to the Jessica that would’ve pummelled my face in if I let her have an ounce of freedom?” The voice of Kilgrave was loud and strong. It permeated through Jessica’s mind with raw power of rage and fury and hatred. Buried beneath was a twisted form of love and obsession, but Kilgrave was never capable of such an emotion like love.

Jessica glanced around her, the sleek black furniture bore the signs of modern design. The glass window opposite her displayed the scenic view of London at night. Streets upon streets glistened with the warm glows of street lamps and industrial lights and homely lights. Cars and sirens roared through the streets, but they stood so high up, that all the noises faded from hearing once it reached them.

As Jessica made sense of her surroundings, gaining a sense of freedom and liberty, slowly drip feeding a sense of familiarity into her mind, she felt a knife drop into her hand. The handle was cold. Recently ripped from it’s place on the counter, sauntered through the house and shoved into Jessica’s hand.

She glanced upwards from the knife. The sharp and deadly point facing Kilgrave, like a compass facing north, the knife seemed to magnetise towards him. Although Kilgrave’s demands had finally worn off, she didn’t quite feel the sense of agency she wanted. Niggling away in the back of her mind was a ferocious clawing by Kilgrave, whilst she was almost bound by a sense of Stockholm syndrome.

Upon reflection, she wished she used it. Then and there, it could have ended.

Yet within seconds of that thought, Jessica felt a violent pain in her stomach. Dropping the knife, she didn’t pay it any attention as it smashed against the floor. It bounced across the room, but neither she nor Kilgrave took any notice. In fact, her attention on the pain was so vividly horrible, she hadn’t even noticed the small cut the knife has caused as it sliced a part of her finger.

Beginning to stagger backwards, Jessica let out a horrendous screaming. It resonated through the apartment, mixing with the faint sounds of the city below.

“Shit!” Kilgrave expelled, racing towards her, whilst placing his hand on her stomach. “There’s a hospital outside, but we need to be quick.”

***

Jessica launched upright from her bed, shivering and drenched in sweat. Loud panting followed a terrified shriek, as she felt the springs in the bed beneath her bounce around violently. A strange sensation had suddenly overcome her, as she moved her legs and hands and eyes with her own intention.

Her first call of action was to wipe away the beads of sweat that lined her forehead, before she swung her legs off the bed.

Light-headedness followed, promptly explained as Trish jolted into the room. “Jess!” She cried. “Take it slow – you’ve basically been bedbound for a week, you’re probably going to have to get used to the feeling of sitting up.”

Jessica’s attempts to talk were raspy, but some words scraped through her mouth and replied in a coarse and rough voice. “Kilgrave – what happened?” A sea of memories were blocked away from Jessica – staunchly kept out by a strong damn built in the unconsciousness she had kept for the past few months.

Trish gulped. The prospect of relaying everything about Kilgrave seemed to be an overwhelming concept. What could she talk about first? The nine months she had been away? The murder of Kilgrave’s parents? Kilgrave’s operations with the Hand? Karen taking over Alias Investigations?

Kilgrave’s ‘suicide’?

Deciding against the plethora of starting points, Trish simply rested her hand on Jessica’s leg and shot her a reassuring smile. Jessica felt her heart pounding, feeling an overwhelming sense of fear and anxiety, but grounded in no reason at all. The past nine months were a blur, in fact she had almost lost a year worth of memory, as she only vividly last recalled the day Kilgrave was found in the news.

“Who…” Trish paused for a moment, contemplating the touchiness of the situation after such a raw and unprecedented waking of her sister. “In your sleep, you said the name Connor a few times – Do you know who that is?”

A pain in Jessica’s heart provoked a sense of familiarity, but she had no certain relationship to the name. In fact, the name itself felt empty and soulless. A husk of emotion followed her at the very thought, but it contradicted the guttural pain that arose at the mere mention of the name.

Jessica shook her head, before clambering to her feet. “I- I need a drink.” Promptly, she felt Trish’s arm hold her down, with a daring glare in her eyes. Eyes glazed open in terror and caution, Trish shook her head. “What’s the matter?”

“I-” Trish stammered for a moment, before meeting her eyes. “My mum is here.” It had seemed almost impossible for Jessica’s face to turn a more pale sleet of white, yet the very reference to Dorothy being in Jessica’s house drove an innate anger and terror into her heart, promptly absolving it of the pain erupted by the name ‘Conner’.

Without warning, Jessica threw Trish’s hand off her with some regained strength, before storming into her living room. Despite some time clearly having passed, Jessica was surprised to see the office had retained some order. The wooden cabinet neatly stored her collections, her bottles of borboun lined the shelf with immaculate position. The mahogany table was clean and shining, the desktop clutter neatly ordered. Whilst a couch sat beside her, clearly used over time, but still clean. The windows gleamed with sunlight, scrubbed and well-kept, guarded by curtains that had been cleaned profusely.

Standing quietly with her head barely reeling up from her phone, was Dorothy Walker. Arguably one of the worst mothers known in Jessica’s world – a sentiment that resonated with her a little longer than expected.

Dorothy eventually glanced up when Jessica cleared her throat, with the staged cough drawing her attention away from twenty texts that blasted through her phone.

Throughout Jessica’s life, Dorothy had been distant and cruel. An evident disdain stained their relationship, poisoned them with bitterness. And when Jessica had stormed into her own living room, she had expected this to continue. Afterall, her memories of the past few months were dazed and blurred and almost unreachable – the only accessible aspect of those months was an instinct that something terrible had happened.

Dorothy launched towards Jessica. Tears rolled down her face, ruining the makeup as it dripped down her face. Uncharacteristically, Dorothy whimpered in relief. “I hate the living fuck out of you, but I am so glad you survived.” Dorothy exclaimed, holding her tighter.

“Mother!” Trish expelled angrily, shooting her a furious glare. “I haven’t explained it yet.” Releasing Jessica from the tight clasp, Dorothy and Jessica both shot an enraged glare towards Trish. Although their reasons differed, there was no doubt the view of synchronicity between the pair threw Trish off. “I can’t just dump nine months’ worth of shit on you, can I?”

“Nine months?” Jessica’s raspy voice was beginning to fade, returning to normal as she spoke. “What do you mean, nine? What’s the date?”

“November Tenth.” Trish admitted reluctantly, sighing deeply as she considered what she could say. “Jess, take a seat.” Oddly enough, Dorothy guided Jessica towards the couch, sinking into it alongside Jessica. The scraping sound of a wooden chair rang through the apartment with a screeching annoyance. Trish dropped herself onto the seat as she faced her sister with a guilt-ridden face. “What – what do you remember?”

“Nothing.” Jessica replied instinctively. “It’s all a blur – blacked out or something. Last thing I remember was you waking me up, because Kilgrave had attacked Fisk.” There was an exchange of looks between Trish and Dorothy, both of which Jessica couldn’t quite decipher. “But that was about a year ago, wasn’t it?”

Trish nodded her head. “Back in February, Fisk had tracked down Kigrave and had him arrested. But he was broken out by these… it sounds stupid, but ninjas, called the Hand.” The very statement made Dorothy and Jess both pull a doubtful expression, but proceeded to listen as the weight and gravity of the story clearly burdened Trish. “You went in, thinking you were immune. But Kilgrave had worked with his dad to fix that immunity – his powers were stronger – and he…” Hesitation filled the air, bringing the room to silence as Trish struggled to utter the words.

“That asshole kidnapped you and god knows what else.” Dorothy held very little back, as anger lined the words that spat from her mouth. Trish relucnactnly nodded her head.

Jessica’s breathing began to fluctuate and her mind began to panic. Pounding in her chest, her heart pelted against her ribcage as vague flashes of memory began to fade into her mind. She recalled the damp and the night on the prison rooftop. The silver glow of the moon, and Kilgrave’s obnoxious purple suit. “Tell me you love me.” The words of Kilgrave screamed through her mind.

She winced and pushed her palms against her head. “Main Street. Birch Street. Higgins Drive. Cobalt Lane.” Quietly, she cast herself back to home. Safety. A place sealed from her forever. Four road signs at a crossing.

Returning her breathing, Jessica glanced back towards Trish. “Nine months?” Jessica’s eyes gleamed with horror.

“We tried finding you – and then I started training, because Stick said Kilgrave would need to come back, because his deal with the Hand was to track down and deliver a weapon called ‘The Black Sky’.”

There was a vague recollection of the words Trish had uttered. Phrases tossed into conversation in the blurred months that past her by so strangely. It was almost like noticing a face in a crowd and having no clue why you recognise them, or spotting a name in a list and getting the annoying urge that the name means something to you.

Jessica ran her hand down her face, wincing slightly as she felt a pain in her heart worsen. “Then you did come back. And we found you. And then… Kilgrave…” Trish’s voice trailed off.

The headlining news for the previous week, at least within New York, was the thrilling case of Kilgrave’s murder. Everybody had been told the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen was finally dead, but people were uncertain as to how. The situation was confusing and suspicious, but it was heralded by a man renowned for his hatred against Kilgrave.

Fisk had testified, to the police and in public, that Kilgrave was so staunchly guilty for his crimes in his life, that he had ordered for Fisk to kill him. Fisk acted out on Kilgrave’s virus, and opposed the horrid murder that he was guilty of. Yet, despite his confession, the twisting of the truth had also wrangled the public and police to his side, as well as the admission of confidential evidence.

“That bastard took the easy way out.” Dorothy continued. Jessica glanced between the pair confused for a moment, her eyes locking back to Trish with confusion.

“Kilgrave killed himself.” Trish stated bluntly. “Well, he had Fisk do it for him, but it was his own request.”

Jessica shook her head with a violent rejection. “Kilgrave’s ego is far too big for that. He’s an asshole. His arrogance and fear wouldn’t let him do that. He’s probably made Fisk tell the world tha-”

“Jess – They found his body. Verified by his victims, his DNA cross-referenced with his parents. It was Kilgrave.” Trish spoke with a certainty that should have comforted Jessica. The fact Kilgrave was gone, with definite proof should’ve been a miracle. An indelible defeat of the devil.

Yet, something didn’t sit right with Jessica. A lingering doubt seeded her mind as she considered the very idea that Kilgrave would blunder into a situation with guilt. Afterall, imagine if the man who created sin asked for repentance – the bible would be incredibly different.

Confusion settled over her.

Questions riddled her mind.

Doubt followed her thoughts.

“Don’t believe them.” Kilgrave’s voice whispered.

“I need some air.” Jessica pushed herself to her feet and jet off towards the door. She ripped a set of keys from the door and threw it open, feeling the glass of the door shiver slightly with he sheer force being unusual for it. She listened as Trish and Dorothy decided to let her go, knowing it was best to leave Jessica alone.

As she shot through the hallway and approached the elevator, it convulsed open with perfect timing. Ding! The sound echoed in Jessica’s head, rattling around with confusion and power. Standing before her was a man she recognised, but with everything almost completely different.

“Malcolm?” She asked, her eyes fixed on a well-shaven, smartly-suited man. His eyes were free of drooping black bags, and his mouth curved into a genuine smile. His attention was focused, not dawdling away.

“Shit! Jessica! You’re better!” He expelled in continuance, throwing his arms around her suddenly, before letting go and awkwardly shifting away.

“I could say the same for you. What the hell happened?”

“Surely Trish-”

“No – what happened to you? I don’t think you ever saw a moment sober.”

“I got clean. Had to. Kilgrave ruined my life, but I couldn’t let it follow me forever.”

“Right…” Jessica felt a sense of understanding, but her blurred memory baffled her.

Switching places with Malcolm, Jessica continued on her path. The world itself seemed normal. The grey streets contrasted by the horrible mustard yellow of taxis. Vents shooting steam from below, whilst people strolled on by minding their business. Avengers commemorated in murals and drawings, whilst news outlets breaking a new development in the ‘Kilgrave Suicide’ case.

*

Jessica had one intention of where she was headed. Despite a blurred memory and vague memories of other places in the world, the route she was taking was etched into her mind. She knew the steps, the streets, the times. She had even been able to predict which shops were open and ran by who, even after a years’ worth of lost memory.

Stood before her was one of New York’s countless skyscrapers. Glancing upwards, she watched as the clouded sky shifted over some of the building’s top floors, whilst some sunlight broke through and shimmered against the large windows of the structure.

Floor 54 was her destination, reached promptly by a swift sauntering inside, ignoring the plants and the depressingly corporate design. Behind the secretary, who had thrown up a fuss about Jessica’s abrupt and unscheduled sauntering, a simple and black sign which read: ‘Hogarth, Chao & Benowitz LLP’.

Jessica hadn’t the need of strolling unannounced and uninvited into Hogarth’s office, as she found her stood in the middle of the hallway. She was distracted at first, busy talking to a shaggy haired man that seemed vaguely familiar to Jessica, although that feeling had lost it’s charm long ago, and was promptly dismissed.

Interrupting their conversation only required Jessica’s close proximity to alert Hogarth, since the woman stopped her words at the very sight of Jessica. A gaping shock covered her face, before the man beside her expelled, “Jessica? I didn’t know you were feeling better.” Jessica glared at the man, trying to decipher where she had seen him before. “I’m Foggy – friend of Karens. I was there when we saved you.”

“Foggy, go and sort out that Roxxon file. The New Orleans one.” Hogarth dismissed Foggy nonchalantly, unmoving her eyes from Jessica. Her eyes absorbed every detail of Jessica’s slim face, her jet black hair and small nose. The leather jacket still strapped around her and the dazed expression that filled her eyes. As Foggy complied and wandered away, Hogarth snapped out of her shock. “Foggy told me you were back, but- It’s been a while.”

“So, I’ve been told.” Jessica was short with Hogarth, which returned back a sense of normality which she had missed. Jessica gestured for Hogarth to follow, and together they sauntered into her office. Jessica dismissed Hogarth’s idle small-talk, not necessarily caring as a new case bristled in her mind. “Fisk – I need to meet with him again.” Jessica instructed once she heard the clicking of the doors as they shut.

Hogarth laughed, “I think taking on more shit around Kilgrave isn’t a good idea.”

“Kilgrave couldn’t have killed himself.” Jessica bluntly replied.

“Maybe not, but he was capable of making people follow every instruction that he wanted – remember?” Hogarth remarked, raising her eyebrow as she slumped into her seat, with a surprising amount of grace as she did so. “I don’t know the specifics of the case, but they have found concrete evidence that Kilgrave had made that instruction.”

“And you believe that?” Jessica retorted.

“I don’t care enough to question it. Because the alternative is that Fisk killed him, and if that’s the case, then Fisk needs to be Sainted.” Hogarth was strict and strong, staring deeply back at Jessica with anger as she did so. “Fisk is another kettle of fish. But in this case, I’m not a fishmonger.”

“No. Just a divorcee with a cold heart.” Jessica remarked, matching Hogarth’s expression as she glanced down towards her ringless hand. “I’m back now, so just remember to call me when you need me – or if you change your mind.”

***

Kilgrave killing himself doesn’t add up. That man was a narcissist, obsessed with control. I don’t care how fucked up his trauma was, he wouldn’t have ended his own life. At least not without some twisted scheme. So either, Fisk killed a man who should’ve faced justice, or there’s something worse waiting for us – and I can’t figure out which is worse.

Each step I take feels like walking on broken glass. A constant reminder of the shattered memories that I’m trying to piece together. The past year, but especially these past nine mnths are a void – a void that Kilgrave’s voice still echoes faintly.

But if Kilgrave is gone, and I’m chasing ghosts, is it worth it?  

***

Jessica awoke. Again. Flickering frequently, her consciousness returned to a nightmarish haze, feeling the excruciating pain on her stomach, which intensified with each breath.

The pristine white of the walls slowly faded, as the fluorescent brightness of the blinding lights began to wear away. Her ears tuned to British voices, each calling out important terms, all flustered with panic, but held with stern certainty. Turmoil spiralled inside her stomach, but the calmness of the cleanliness around her comforted her briefly.

“Hurry!” Beckoned Kilgrave’s voice, shouting at the flurried nurses and doctors. Hovering beside her, his face glanced down. Twisted concern lined his face as he clasped onto her hand tightly. The air was thick with the scent of antiseptic and a distant and incessant hum of medical equipment. “Everything will be fine, Jessica. Just stay with me. I need you.”

There was another flurry of activity, and a pulsating pain surged through Jessica. Her eyes glanced back around her room, before finally succumbing to her senses. She felt herself dressed in a blue gown, with an open and following bottom, which was hooked around her knees which prodded outwards as she rested on her back. The sight straight forward from her, when she reared her head towards the source of the pain startled her.

A bump. A huge bump. An undoubtable, huge, baby bump.

***

Jessica launched up from her bed and let out a terrified series of panting. She patted her hand against her stomach, feeling uncertain whether there was truth to the nightmare.

She then recalled the knife. The reflection that she which she had used it, and recalled a slither of pain from it, gushing with droplets of blood. Taking a glance at that very finger, she observed it under the slither of silver moonlight and yellow hue of streetlamps from behind her, before spotting the faintest wound. A wound sealed and healed by a short progression of time.

Chapter Text

Nightmares don’t end when you wake up. They follow you, lingering in the back of your mind like a shadow, refusing to fade.

From the earliest that I can remember, my life has always been one of those nightmares. In fact, it’s been like a series of, one after another. And the worst part? Sometimes, the nightmares make more sense than reality.  

***

Jessica waited in the lobby of the penthouse, whilst the image of her pregnant belly fixed itself to her mind. The vaguely recollected memory baffled Jessica, as she tried to make sense of something she had no context for. Trish had explained the kidnapping and the globetrotting, but that still didn’t explain how she ended up in a hospital bed.

Before the issue could dwell on Jessica’s mind any more than it already had, her ears were pricked by the voice of a receptionist. The young woman’s voice was sprite and quiet, complimenting her attractive features as she sauntered into the lobby. Calling out for Jessica, she escorted her into the elevator and up towards the penthouse of Wilson Fisk.

With the electronic release of the doors, Jessica was greeted into the penthouse she vaguely recognised. It was joining the long list of aspects of her memory that appeared half formed. Although she had no recollection of the penthouse, nothing about it surprised her. The lavish, yet modest and simple decoration, alongside the sleek black and white colour scheme. The vast glass windows which peered out into the city of New York, whilst hanging over the penthouse itself was a peculiar painting – something Jessica felt resonated with her for some reason.  

“Jessica Jones,” Greeting Jessica with a rumbling voice which seemed to send out a sturdy vibration throughout the room, Fisk peered across towards her with a polite smile. His towering presence was contradicted by a charismatic charm in his face, a glance of reassurance twinkling in his eyes. “I heard you weren’t feeling too well after you returned… I do hope you’re feeling better now, and that you can work towards putting those horrible months with Kilgrave aside.”

Pausing at the mere mention of the name, Jessica felt a shiver shoot down her spine. A terror provoked within her, erupting with great force. “I’ve been better.” She remarked, refusing the offer to take a seat.

Noticing the bluntness of Jessica’s voice, Fisk sighed slightly. “So, what do I owe the pleasure of this meeting?”

“You know exactly why, Fisk. So cut the crap. I want to know what happened – what happened when you killed Kilgrave.”

Fisk leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled together. “Ah, straight to the point. Very well, Miss Jones. But understand, there are complexities to these events. But it’s no surprise you’d want… clarification on the details of that night.”

“Details?” Jessica almost spat as her voice, laced with fury and disbelief, shot from her mouth. “You mean that bullshit you spun about his suicide?” There was a strong utterance of the word bullshit which remained with Fisk in the seconds that followed her retort. It hung in the air with considerable power and impression. Yet, despite his response, Fisk’s expression remained unphased and impassive. “And calling the events ‘complex’ means nothing – that’s just some fucked up way of justifying murder.”

Fisk raised an eyebrow as he glanced up towards Jessica, his attention now caught. “Sometimes, the line between justice and vengeance is difficult to distinguish, especially with devils like Kilgrave. His death was a necessity, not just for you, but for everyone he had tormented.”

“You think I’m grateful for this?” Jessica’s rage was contrasted by the low and dangerous sound to her voice. She glared towards Fisk, “Killing Kilgrave hasn’t bought me peace. It’s just raised more questions. Questions about your crap.”

“A year ago, you told me that Kilgrave kept you like a prisoner. And when he escaped, he did the same again. He abused you, Miss Jones. He hurt many people, but his intentions with you were purely selfish. Is there not a sense of relief inside of you? Does knowing that the devil who roamed our streets, who laid his hands on you, who revelled in your misery, not make you feel some sense of freedom?” Fisk raised his eyebrow, genuinely and utterly curious to hear her answer. But when silence followed and Jessica contemplated the question, Fisk continued. “It doesn’t quite matter if you believe it’s a false story, because the fact remains that Kilgrave is dead – and the world is better for it.”

“Kilgrave was an arrogant bastard. He cared about himself way too much to ask that he be killed.”

Fisk's eyes didn't waiver. “Kilgrave was a man driven by sin and evil and demons. Perhaps, in a moment of humanity, he saw death as the only escape from his own madness.”

“Or maybe there's something you're not telling me,” Jessica shot back with interrogative fury. "Something that doesn't add up. And until I figure out what that is, I'm not going to stop digging. So, Fisk, you best just tell me now.”

Fisk sighed, before wandering to the small area of the penthouse which made up a kitchen. He poured himself a glass of water, before glancing back to Jessica. In his mind, there was a part of him that was tempted by honesty. He knew the trauma that Jessica had faced, and the relief that closure could bring her was immense.

“If I were to tell you the events of that day, I would need a guarantee that you would keep it private.”

Jessica shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t care. I just need to know, what happened?” Her eyes blazed with intensity, as held over her like a stringed carrot, was the possibility of answers. Fisk noticed this. It was etched into her eyes. A sense of desperation shaded the glint in her eyes, begging for the truth.

“The day I killed Kilgrave, I was led to a warehouse. Kilgrave had been employed to find a woman called the Black Sky. Two men with grievances against the Hand helped track him down. During the confrontation, the woman destined to become the Black Sky was ordered by Kilgrave to kill herself. One of the men, who loved her, was distraught. The Hand failed to take her body, but Kilgrave then ordered the man to kill him.”

Jessica stared suspiciously, “But why? Kilgrave could’ve controlled him to do anything else?”

“It seemed, he wanted the final acts of his life to be twisting a man beyond his moral compass.”

“But why did you say you did it? Surely that was way more dangerous for your whole career.”

“Because it’s true. The gentleman survived Kilgrave’s command – he resisted it. And so I took it upon myself to rid the devil from the Earth.” Jessica hesitated for a moment – realising that Fisk had not only admitted to cold-blooded murder, but someone had become immune to Kilgrave’s powers – even despite the strength and the boosts that he had seen with his powers.

Yet, as Jessica stood in the sleek penthouse, her mind filled with a darker realisation. A realisation that she had wanted to avoid considering, but now had haunted her.

Kilgrave’s arrogance, although frustrating, was backed up by a life of strategy. Everything Kilgrave did was to avoid himself from being caught. Kilgrave had survived a bus crash discreetly through strategy, had hunted Jessica down through strategy, and trotted around the world undetected through strategy. Therefore, it stood to reason that Kilgrave’s death had a strategy behind it. A calculation and an assumption made.

“Miss Jones. The death of Kilgrave marks a new life for us all – but nobody more than yourself.” Fisk gulped down the final remnants of the water, before smiling at her with some assurance. “Please, leave this issue behind you. Regardless of how Kilgrave met his demise that night, the most important detail is the fact he is now dead. We can live our lives knowing that he is no longer with us.”

“Don’t you see?” Jessica expelled angrily, shaking her head as she paced towards the window. Her eyes stared out, observing the city in all of it’s beauty. “Kilgrave wanted to be killed. He wanted to be tested – but he left me waiting for him. He had every intention of returning.”

“But he isn’t, Miss Jones!” Fisk now held a resonating anger in his voice as he rejected the very notion. “Kilgrave was killed. My very hands succumb to his wish.” Replaying in Fisk’s mind was the horror and violence that he had enacted in a moment of heroism. How his hands gripped Kilgrave’s hair, smashing his face against the concrete. The blood spatter, disfiguring the man’s face, leaving the faint glimmer of a sadistic smile.

Jessica turned back to glance at Fisk, uncertain how to respond to the sudden whip of fury that filled the man’s voice. As Fisk and Jessica locked eyes for a moment, he felt his rage calm slightly, regret passing over him as he realised that he had raised his voice. Fisk apologised, his voice now gentle and quieter.

“I know it must’ve been traumatic for you.” Jessica stated, her mind now circulating with the death of Reva. The yellow glow of the street illuminating her face with a gentle glimmer. The lifelessness in her eyes as Jessica’s fist collided with her stomach. Jessica knew the guilt and the pain and the terror. “I just can’t help but feel that something else is at play here. Kilgrave planned everything – so if he let somebody kill him, he must’ve had a failsafe.”

Fisk considered the idea, removed of the resonating rage. “If that is the case, then only you would really know. You were with him for nine months.”

Jessica sighed. Because it was just her luck that her memories held the key to the mystery of a possible failsafe, and yet all that she could recall was a vividly vague vision of giving birth in an English hospital.

***

Closure. They say it’s best to find it, bring an end to the trauma with answers. But what happens when you’re not sure what you need closure for?

Kilgrave’s death should have been closure enough, but it wasn’t. Confronting Fisk should have provided me closure, but it didn’t. Which raises the question, where do I need to go now? What closure is left for me to find?

The answer was in my nightmares all along – Connor.

***

With a glass of bourbon at her side, Jessica hunched over her desk in the dark night. Her laptop’s computer screen was the only illumination in the room, casting a pale white glimmer across her face. She sat puzzled, trying to figure out how she could even go about tracking down her own child, whom she couldn’t even recall conceiving nor birthing.

“Damn it. Think, Jessica, think.” She muttered to herself angrily, burrowing her head in her hands for a moment. Shutting her eyes, she re-envisioned the fragmented nightmare that had haunted her. Regardless of the terror it struck in her heart, re-living the nightmare posed the only way to revisit the blurred out months that had been shielded from her.

Snippets of the memories returned to her. The hospital itself was pristinely kept and carried a sterile stench. The men and women each spoke with accents, the poshness exceeding that of Kilgrave. She recalled the blue gown, draping over her knees to give way for the child. The pain was there in her mind too, the most physically enduring pain she had ever endured.

But none of that itself was helpful, so she cast her mind back further.

She recalled the knife and how it had sliced her finger. Blood dripping on the floor – a wooden floor, with a white rug. In the background she heard Kilgrave’s voice of rage and fury, but there was something else. A television – broadcasting the news? Or a TV show?

Putting that aside, Jessica fixated on the other details. Furniture, sleek and modern – though that told her nothing of particular detail. Sounds of streets outside and below… her mind flickered drawing itself to that sound as it reached from a city below and into the apartment. A city by a river – buildings of different and indistinct designs… but one structure caught her attention.

Jolting forward, Jessica verified the picture she had caught in her mind. A bridge across a vast river, with two tall castle-like towers ribboned with blue metal grating. Tower Bridge – without a doubt, the scene she caught sight of as she felt the immense pain erupt in her stomach. Her eyes had caught sight of the centre raising up to make way for a boat – though that was a detail she paid little attention to.

She searched the area for skyscrapers, although the most obvious and the most lavish that an arrogant asshole like Kilgrave would use as a haven was the Shard. As Jessica clenched her eyes shut, she now unravelled memories of glancing up towards the structure, spotting it under the blue glimmer of the day, clouds passing above it, whilst the glass baked in the glistening sunlight that cast down upon it.

Then searching the area for hospitals, she had found a plethora – but then she recalled the cleanliness. The pristine kept and the posh voices and the details she dismissed, and she realised the hospital that seemed most obvious didn’t match her memories. Not to mention, besides the doctors and nurses, she didn’t recall seeing anybody else. No other patients, or mothers or babies – even passing through the lobby and after into her own room, it was secluded and isolated.

She realised then, that it only made sense for Kilgrave and his nature of strategy to attend a private hospital. Fewer witnesses, a smaller mess to clean up.

As Jessica made an assumption as to where Kilgrave and she visited on the night of the birth, she felt calmer. Things began to fall into place, and details started to align. Letting out a sigh of relief, Jessica slumped back into her chair and let out a steady and quiet laugh. Finally, she had found some step towards relief.

“…pieces to make a clockwork squirrel.” The voice of an English woman rang in her ears, broadcast from the TV and catching her ears at some point in the evening.

Once again, Jessica jerked forward. Any ounce of memory that shot through her mind was a key to something, and this was a prime example. Especially a phrase like that, being obscure and memorable enough to be condensed into a simple search.

Whilst at first the results were nothing more than pictures of squirrels and clockwork, she eventually stumbled across an answer. A Reddit post, taking a quote from a TV show that Jessica felt she recognised from some point in her life or another – the sense of familiarity yet uncertainty had lost it’s weight over her by now, and she had dismissed the strange feelings of recognition.

The answers Jessica had found led her to an episode of a show called Doctor Who. That episode having been broadcast a month prior – October 3rd, at 8.25.

Investigating that key detail led Jessica down a rabbit hole, trying to pinpoint the exact time it could have been, before dismissing that effort altogether. Instead, Jessica’s focus shifted. Now she knew the time and the place she was investigating, and had to begin formulating a strategy to get the answers she needed.

Dismissing the creeping notion that she was about to stumble across an answer she’d rather not find, Jessica knew that closure was what she needed – and that closure was nearly in sight.

*

“Six hundred dollars?” Trish’s voice blasted through the phone, as confusion and line the words she uttered. Jessica winced slightly at the realisation of the numbering, before letting out an audible sigh which travelled across the phone line.

“I just need a ticket to London and some money for a bed.”

“Jess, you’re only just recovering from months being away. The last thing you need-”

“The last thing I need is to have questions unanswered.” Jessica interrupted with a frustrated tone, having not yet quite revealed the fragmented memories that she was beginning to seek answers for. A stammered silence followed, as Trish was almost overwhelmed by Jessica’s interjection. There was a fire behind it, a tragic desperation, which was only worsened by Trish’s knowledge that the nine months were hellish enough for Jessica to blot out the memories. “I need to know what happened Trish – I need to find him.”

“Find who?” Trish’s question was met with silence from Jessica, prompting an abrupt panic in her voice. “Jess, what aren’t you telling me?”

Hesitation caught the words in Jessica’s throat, stumbling her words for a moment. “There are things – things that I… I don’t remember clearly. Something happened with Kilgrave in those months, but I can’t tell if it’s real or just a nightmare. So, I need answers.”

Trish groaned as she considered a response, before her voice broke the pause in their conversation. “What are you looking to answer, Jess?”

“It doesn’t matter!” Jessica retorted angrily, promptly matched by Trish’s rebuttal.

“Of course it does!” Trish retorted, frustrated and admittedly slightly heartbroken that Jessica continued to keep a secret from her. “Listen, if you won’t tell me, then I’m coming to London with you.” Trish’s ultimatum was secretly the ideal situation for Jessica. Although she would prefer to scour the streets of London for evidence herself, there was some relief in the prospect of having her sister at her side – not to also mention that it meant she could keep the topic of her mysterious child a secret for longer.

“Alright then. Pack your bags and meet me here as soon as possible.” Jessica replied, with a grin that was almost as audible as her sigh from earlier. Trish argued for a moment, before realising that the situation suited her too, wanting to keep an eye on her sister in case any trouble arose.

“We need to be back before the 27^th. I have an audition on that day.”

“That’s fine!” Jessica exclaimed, before hanging up the phone.

She jolted around her bedroom and acquired the essentials. She had no need of a suitcase, which was fortunate because she realised, she didn’t actually own one. Instead, she jammed her clothes and wash stuff and essentials into a duffel bag, all before zipping it up compactly and leaving a bulking bag to hang by her side.

In her chest was a flurry. She couldn’t quite pinpoint if it was excitement or anxiety, but she could feel her heart rattle against her ribcage regardless, and there was some relief in that she was edging closer and closer to the answers she needed.

Chapter Text

Where does the Devil come from? Christians will tell us he was an angel, cast out from heaven. That he swirled around a tree to corrupt the mind of the first woman. There feels like there’s truth to that story – that the first sin was committed by a woman, whose mind was poisoned by a man of evil.

But in my belief, the Devil comes from England. He was born in the country that went on to sprout a colony across the world. A country that paraded pride in victory in two World Wars it would’ve lost alone. And, in some capacity, those two iconic pieces of history are perfect for Kilgrave.

A weak lonely man, whose victories are won by other people, and he grows like fungus. In the dark seeded parts of peoples minds.

Yet, here I am. The city of London, in search for Kilgrave’s child.

***

The night sky glazed with a dying tint of blue, slowly succumbing to the darkness of the night. Clouds littered the sky, almost shielding the city below from the fading sunlight on the horizon and the growing strength of the silvery glisten of the moon. Meanwhile the flickers of streetlamps and lights from skyscrapers drown the city in a cascade of contrastingly strong and warm glows.

Streets were busy, packed with night drinkers, tired business workers and a variety of irritated cyclists and drivers caught in the drenched traffic.

Yet Jessica’s attention was less so on the drowsy and clumsy passersby, but the variety of British accents, each of which triggered her memories of Kilgrave. Although, she resisted the urge to hide away and recite street names – because she knew she was safe. The voices of English people weren’t the problem. A dead British asshole was, and she needed to find the root of his strategy.

Trish felt some comfort as she passed through the streets. Back in America, specifically New York, her face was instantly recognisable. Her eyes and mouth and nose all morphed together as a memory of people’s childhoods, unbeknownst to them, being a recollection of trauma for Trish each time. Here, ‘Patsy’ meant nothing. She was free from fame.

Jessica and Trish eventually arrived at a hotel. It wasn’t anything particularly lavish, but equally it wasn’t a horror-site. It was affordable, discreet and liveable. The beds were clean, the bathroom scrubbed and a kettle with tea cups and bags sat nestled on a desk.

Jessica dropped her duffle bag down on bed, watching as the weakened springs of the cheap mattress barely bounced it. A hefty sight released from her lips as she sat down on the bed. Her eyes fixed on the window, where she could see across into the city’s streets.

For a moment, as Trish busied herself with examining the room, Jessica watched a woman in her living room. She observed her with calm curiosity, watching as the normal woman sat in her normal apartment, on her normal couch, watching normal TV. The very thought of it provoked a bristling sense of envy in her heart, as her green eyes watched with a confused sense of anger and sadness.

“Not the worst.” Trish remarked, reeling from the bathroom and smiling at Jessica, who cocked her head around to examine Trish’s face. Trish, noticing the silence which rested in the air, approached Jessica. She sat down beside her and reached for her hand, saying nothing for a moment. The only clue of communication being a sympathetic expression across her face. “Why are we here, Jess? Why did you need to travel half-way across the world?”

Jessica sighed, still not wanting to admit the truth, but knowing now that they were mere steps from their next discovery, that it was worth admitting now. Racing in her mind, she recalled the night once more, Preparing the details to relay to her sister – but then, as she spoke, her ears pricked at a voice from the room next door. Her heart skipped and terror struck her, prompting her to leap from the bed and across the room.

“Jess – wait!” Trish’s voice was lost as Jessica shot up.

Barraging through her own door and her neighbours, she found herself intruding upon a man, who sat fully clothed and bemused. His eyes flicked up towards Jessica, his hands deeply embedded in a bag of chocolate, whilst a hoodie strapped around his body. His hair was a bright red, and his face fairly plump – at least in contrast to the man she expected.

The man looked terrified as he met Jessica’s eyes, only worsened as she loudly questioned him. “Where did that voice come from?” Whilst the man’s baffled expression lingered, before he could answer, Jessica’s attention was drawn to the TV which hung from the wall. She watched as an actor bearing enough features to trick her into thinking he was Kilgrave, sauntered across the screen shouting profanities in a staunch Scottish accent.

Jessica froze, guilt written across her face, as it turned to a pale white sleet of embarrassment. Jessica apologised profusely before jetting off back into her bedroom – leaving a confused Trish to clean up the mess. Instead, Jessica shut the curtains tight and rested in her bed, leant against the headboard as she realised that the trauma still had rooted itself deep in her mind.

With a slight shake to the room, Trish soon returned and shut the door behind her. She sat at the end of the bed, and waited for the answer that had been interrupted by Jessica’s frenzy of familiarity. “What was that about?” Jessica shook her head, but that only prompted a raised eyebrow to mark Trish’s disbelief. “Kilgrave is dead. You have to accept that – that surely has to bring you some comfort.”

“He…” Jessica stuttered for a moment, trying to find the words, before shaking her head in frustration. “Kilgrave raped me. And I think – I think I was pregnant.” Jessica admitted, feeling a heavy burden sit upon her shoudlers. While the former part of her revelation was no news to Trish, it still felt painful to hear, but that pain and rage was ripped away as confusion overcame her. The very prospect of Jessica being pregnant was unusual enough, but with a child of Kilgrave?

“Seriously?” Trish asked cautiously, leaping across the bed to sit closer to her, clutching her hand as her eyes fixed on her sisters. There was a love in her eyes, a bond formed and kept, a sadness and trust and protection. Jessica nodded her head, before reciting the nightmare that had plagued her mind. She explained how she had deduced the destination to be London – right down to the possible date, time and hospital. “Do you remember anything else? The doctors or nurses? Even the cause of you going into labour early?”

Jessica shook her head, trying to think deeply for a moment, but her mind stirring up nothing. Nothing revealed itself from the dark crevices of the blacked out days or months or hours. “All I know is that the name Connor is important.”

“Is that like – A Dr Conner? A nurse Conner?” Hesitating for a moment, Trish continued. “A son, Conner?”

Jessica sighed, having jumped to that conclusion first. She had built her understanding of the situation around that name, because it fit in perfectly. “I don’t know – but that’s what I need to find out. What happened to the baby? Why did it not come with us? What happened that night?”

Trish once again was reluctant to speak the words that tipped the edge of her tongue, but she felt the need for truth. Her eyes glanced towards her sister with a sense of fear, before braving the honesty she needed to push through. “Jess – What if… what if the baby died? Kilgrave and you have been through so much, I’m sure somewhere there’s some increased potential for complications during a childbirth. Are you prepared for that possibility?”

“I know Kilgrave. I know how that mind of his works. If there is a child – and it’s not with us, then it’s somewhere as part of his plan. Some whole plan he’s concocted – where he got himself intentionally killed. Because I can’t believe the idea that he didn’t plan any of this.”

Trish watched carefully, as the panic rose in Jessica’s voice and the frantic skittering of her eyes. “I understand that you’re coping with trauma – I respect that. But, have you thought this through at all? The logic? The technicalities? What if Kilgrave lost a child and felt so much guilt and shame that he had Fisk kill him?”

Out loud, Trish was conducting the same line of questioning that had been undergoing in the back of Jessica’s mind. The voices and inner monologue that teemed away in Jessica’s mind had thrown around these very questions. However, Jessica had buried them. Beneath the facts and the certainty, Jessica had ridded her mind of the doubt and the fear – knowing that it was all a product of a sense of futility.

Jessica shook her head and leapt up. She wandered towards the window and carefully opened the curtain. Her eyes observed the street below, cars illuminated by streetlamps and headlamps. She watched as drunk men staggered across the street, and women cautiously avoided. But her eyes gravitated towards the glass skyscraper that towered over the buildings around her.

The monolith was the answer to her burning questions – she was certain of it.

“Why the Shard?” Trish wondered, standing beside her sister and catching her gaze.

“It was in my memory or nightmare- or whatever. But Kilgrave… he always had a thing for high places. I suppose it meant he could hide away easier, whilst looking down on people. Literally and figuratively.”

Trish considered the notion, feeling some relief that she had very little interaction with the monster who had abused her sister and reigned terror in so many lives. What almost seemed worse about him was an arrogance he carried, a thought that brought Trish closer to understanding the anxious thinking littering Jessica’s mind.

“Alright – we start there in the morning. But we need some rest. Going into this exhausted won’t help anybody.”

*

London at night was considerably different to New York. It’s layout, cars, people, accents, aesthetics, and smells. But the darkness of the streets held the same capability of evil. After all, these were the streets the evil of Kiglrave’s grandparents likely walked. It was ground already cursed by sin and cruelty – so it wasn’t outlandish to consider it’s potential for corruption like New York.

Jessica had snuck out of the hotel room. She had open the window wide enough to leap out through, landing on her feet and cracking the ground beneath slightly as she did so. Luckily for her, very few people were around to pay attention, and anybody who was around barely cared to look at Jessica after the slight tremble of the ground.

It seemed that besides super strength, Jessica had unlocked a new power of invisibility in the streets of London. Nobody even glanced towards her as she strolled through the dark streets – something that brought her amazing comfort.

After some time of wandering through the dark and quiet city streets, her face flashed with white and green and red and orange lights, Jessica eventually arrived at the foot of the shard. Despite the skyscraper’s raw beauty, the ground beneath it barely matched it. It heralded a dingy train station packed with stumbling drunkards and sad cases of homelessness. Yet Jessica’s attention was drawn towards hunting down the private hospital that was etched into her mind.

She waded through the crowds, disregarded the drunk heckling and the ogling eyes, and eventually stumbled across a pristine glass entrance to the clinic she needed. The lights shone brighter than anything for miles, sitting in competition against the glimmer of the moon.

The entrance bore the same signs of corporate design as back in New York, with a few plants scattered across the sleek white décor.

A woman at the reception desk observed Jessica for a moment, before pressing a small button to her side. The glass doors clinked and began to open, with a quiet humming noise, and the woman emerged with her head half out of the glass.

The woman led Jessica with a gentle smile, a kind twinkle to her eyes, “I’m afraid we’re closed at the moment. Only open to emergencies for clients.” Jessica had some confirmation that she was right in following the vague fragments of her memory.

“I was a client.” Jessica lied – although founded it in some truth. “Last month – October 3^rd. My…” She considered what to call Kilgrave, the lie of boyfriend or partner being too foul too stomach. “I was brought in because I went into labour early.”

The woman stared suspiciously, although something about Jessica’s blagging rang true. A small nugget of truth found deep in herself, prompted her to open the door wider to let her through – not to mention the growing number of drunk men, who appeared to gravitate towards the building like moths to a flame.

The woman darted across towards her desk, before beginning to search up the date that Jessica provided. She glanced up at Jessica infrequently, each time providing Jessica a slither of hope that information had been found, before promptly losing it.

“Data privacy laws and patient confidentiality means I need to see some ID.” The woman eventually held a glance up towards Jessica, a patience written across her gentle smile. But, as Jessica handed over a flimsy ID card, she was met with a puzzled expression. “I’m really sorry, but that isn’t what we have on record here… Your partner-”

“Father of the kid.” Jessica interjected with an ounce of urgency, to rid the notion she was coupled with the devil. “He seems to have put down a different name and date of birth… which…” The woman leant down into a small filing cabinet and rummaged through it, retrieving a small file quickly and effectively. “Sorry ma’am, I wasn’t working that night so I’m just having to double check. Is there no way you could bring the father in? Just in case he’s provided the wrong information.”

“He’s dead.” Jessica bluntly replied, staring down with rage. “He killed himself. Or a rich guy killed him. I don’t know, and I don’t care. I just need to know about what happened that night.” The reveal of Kilgrave’s fate threw the woman off slightly, and were Jessica’s senses heightened, she’d have detected the racing, pounding heart in the woman’s chest.

“I’m really sorry – there’s no evidence here of a Jessica Jones. Do you know of another name he might’ve used? Some ID for that?”

“The man was an abusive asshole, who trafficked me around the world and got me pregnant. No, I don’t know another name. I don’t have ID for that other name.” There was a growing mount of rage in Jessica’s voice as she stared down. “Listen, the man’s name was Kilgrave. I don’t expect he used that name officially, but somebody must’ve heard that name.”

It wasn’t uncommon for the name ‘Kilgrave’ to strike a terror in people who knew him. The name itself provoked a terrified and pale flush in the woman’s face, as the name carried a weight to it. Guilt almost covered her, as she barely wanted to glance up towards Jessica.

“Is there anybody who was here that night?” Jessica asked, pressing further as the telltale signs of Kilgrave and terror splattered across her face.

“Dr. Stewart was in that night… he’s not really done work outside his office for a month though.” Jessica nodded her head, sighing deeply as she undoubtedly understood that she was standing on the precipice of answers. The woman began to stand up and wander across the room, asking Jessica to take a seat before disappearing into the hallways behind her.

Jessica rested in one of the couches for a moment. Her weariness was beginning to catch up with her, and she leant forward to catch her head in her hands. She felt her jet black hair drop down, cascading down from her head, and shielding much light from her eyes.

Jessica recalled the nightmare, trying to unearth more memories from it. But nothing besides vague familiarity brought her back to the hospital. She recited the facts she knew – Shard, knife, cut, labour, gown, white walls, Kilgrave.

“Miss Jones, I believe.” A quiet and gentle tone of a man drew Jessica’s attention upward, and she caught the gaze of the scarred man. His eyes teemed with anxiety, his voice echoing that fear too. Jessica leapt from her seat and locked eyes with the man, waiting until he spoke next after her confirmation. “You want to remember more from that evening?”

“Can you tell me more?”

“Believe me, I was there.” He spoke calmly, his frail hands gesturing for her to follow. His smile was warm, as he strolled through the back and into his cluttered officer.

There was a stark contrast between the chaos of his office and the neat and orderly dress sense of the doctor.

But Jessica paid it little attention. She instead sat down and glanced across towards the doctor, waiting for answers.

“Why have you come to me for answers?” Asked the man, his hand trembling as he turned around towards his computer, inputting some information and clicking his mouse around a few times, before finding the information he needed.

“I can’t remember anything. Nothing in the past nine months, apart from a nightmare. A nightmare that’s so vivid and I’m sure I have proof of. But in this nightmare, I’m giving birth in this hospital.” Jessica now observed the doctor’s eyes, before shutting her eyes and envisioning the man from her nightmares. Although a blue mask covered his face, the eyes were the exact same. “You were there!”

“Kilgrave brought you in. Demanded we cease everything we were doing to give you the full amount of attention possible. In truth, your case wasn’t incredibly serious – premature births aren’t rare. But he was so angry, and we all seemed to want to help.”

“And the baby?”

The doctor paused. His mind was so wrapped up in the demanding rage of Kilgrave, who had sauntered in with nothing but instructions that the hospital wanted to follow, that he hadn’t even considered the procedure. Or perhaps, he didn’t want to. “It…” He didn’t answer for a moment, only stuttering as she cycled through his memory.

“Did it survive?” Jessica pressed with urgency and panic, met once again with stammering from the man. “Listen, I need to know. Kilgrave has a plan and that baby could be a part of it.”

Jessica paused again to consider the weight of it. The reality was, she cared little about Kilgrave. She could snap his neck if she got close enough. What terrified her more was the prospect that Kilgrave’s abilities had passed onwards to a child, who could become worse than Kilgrave.

But then, she considered that. She considered if she was really feeling fear of Kilgrave, or fear of losing somebody else. Flashing in her mind was the car crash from when she was younger, or the tears that stained Trish’s face and the alcohol that lingered on Dorothy’s tongue.

Now there was a chance of a new family – but it seemed lost. “Please – tell my if my child is alive.”

Dr Stewart winced and shook his head, a gesture which shattered Jessica’s heart until he spoke. She waited to hear his voice provide an answer, a verbal confirmation as opposed to mere movements. “I can’t say – I can’t say anything. You… you shouldn’t be here.” Crossing his face was almost a sense of desperate deliria. He lunged forward, throwing Jessica to the ground in a desperate plight. The chair launched across the room, whilst a shelf of an array of miscellanea collapsed to the ground and littered the floor around them.

The doctor was hunched over Jessica, his hands plastered to her neck and she felt him force all the strength he had into his frail hands. The bones beneath were hard against her throat, but escaping for Jessica was more than easy.

Clasping onto his hands, she prevented the strangling pain, before pushing the man up and away from her, dangling him from the ground as she clambered to her feet.

“I don’t care who you’re protecting here. My child is out there and you know something. What is Kilgrave planning with that baby.”

The man pleaded to be let down to the floor, and once Jessica complied feeling pity for the terrified man, she watched as he leapt towards his table and grabbed a syringe. Within moments, he pierced his neck with a strange, discoloured liquid, which appeared to take effect immediately.

As the doctor’s dying eyes glared at Jessica, his mouth uttered words with a raspy troubled breath. “Check the black cabs. Ward… has your baby.” He struggled for breath and Jessica launched to the floor, quickly crying for help as she realised she had little knowledge of what to do.

Within seconds, the doctor was dead – one of the few people with the answers, and all he seemed to offer were vague sentences that barely made sense.

Yet the lack of answers didn’t quite haunt Jessica. It was the fact somebody had died in the efforts to protect Kilgrave’s secret, even beyond his death. A fact that, when considered by Jessica, provided answers she didn’t know if she wanted.

Chapter Text

Harlem in your world is shaped and defined by it’s heroes and villains. Streets carry soul and the weight of it’s history. The events concerning Jessica Jones and Kilgrave originally led Luke Cage to return to Reva’s family. His bar had been destroyed and his reputation had begun to ring out a little too loud.

But those events never happened in this timeline.

Yet, even though time still attempts to deviate from it’s natural path, there are still events bound to happen. The misguided actions of Chico Diaz lead him into a tricky situation, but the absence of Luke Cage means that the situation falls to the responsibility of Pops.

***

Sirens resonated in the streets of Harlem, blending with the natural harmony of shouting pedestrians, honking cars and pulsating music. Life bled through the streets, visible and audible. The best and the worst all on display. Kids sat on stairwells, women gathered in coffee shops. One young man even attempted to flog footage of the Battle of New York – proudly claiming it to be the best quality available. Even though the neighbourhood had it’s troubles, the life that was on display showed it’s bests and worsts.

Harlem was nothing new to Luke. He’d visited it often enough, and had found a haven in Pop’s barbershop, it almost felt like a second home. It reminded him of Reva and her family and her life and morals. It was the world she came from, the world he almost wished that he did.

Pop’s barbershop gleamed through the street. It’s peace and comfort were a beacon, open for anybody who needed respite from the world. It wasn’t the best building, still run down in certain ways, but it was clean, comfortable and lively enough that it was beloved.

Steps descended down from the street and into the barbershop, the windows with open blinds like open arms, etched in signage for Pop’s shop. Inside, Pop was busy cutting away a young boy’s hair, whilst Bobby Fish sat at a chess table. Three boys, each of different ages, sat around a large TV screen, clasped in their hands were controllers and between them was a competitive spirit.

Letting out a hearty laugh, Pop paused for a moment as his eyes wandered towards the door. “If it isn’t the hero of Hell’s Kitchen!” Exclaimed Pop’s, his face glistening with a smile. “Listen, I need to finish Michael’s cut – but help yourself to a drink or something.”

“Does it have to wait?” Luke asked, intrigued by the hesitation in Pop’s shifting eyes. There was a confirmation in a joke that he made, although Luke’s focus was on the three boys gaming for a moment. “You boys have nowhere better to be?” Luek remarked, watching as they huddled around the screen. Two of the boys paid Luke a small amount of attention, although their need to respond was intervened by Pops.

“Leave ‘em be, Luke. Streets are too dangerous – if they want to sit here and play video games, then let ‘em.” Pops continued cutting through the boys hair, the snapping of the scissors and shuffling of his feet almost rhythmic. “How’s life downtown? How’s the bar?”

Luke nodded his head, smiling slightly. “It’s not my biggest focus at the moment, but I’m keeping it afloat.”

Pops let out a chuckle, before leaning down towards the boy sat in the seat. “Remember that – business is about keeping it afloat and focusing on yourself. Manage what you got at home, and what you got at work, and life works out alright.” Pops continued to perfect the vision he had for the boys hair, until eventually it was complete. He stared in the mirror with a gleam in his eyes and gratitude in his words. He leapt from his chair, threw on his jacket, and wandered out with his mum who had come to collect him.

By now, Luke had taken the initiative to sweep away the hair that had dusted the floor, keeping it clean for Pop to alleviate the extra stress of cleaning. His hands firmly clasped onto the broom, as he swept away the hair and threw it out into the trash.

Pop joined Luke in the back of the barbershop, leaving the front and duties of customer service to Bobby – who had as much spatial awareness as the boys consumed by their video games.

The shutting of the door, although sounding normal, carried a heavy weight and burden. Luke turned to see Pop’s face, which was engulfed by stress. His eyes dared look up to Luke, whilst his movements were slow. His face was void of the usual chipper smile that plastered his face, and instead the man look devastated.

The room was barely lit by a faint orange glow, which cast itself upon the off-coloured teal colour of the room. Pop sat himself on a rickety wooden stool, whilst Luke leaned against a washing machine which had finished a violent rumbling load.

“You gonna tell me what’s going on now?”

“You ain’t gonna like it.” Between them, a silence grew across the room, stretching out awkwardly as Pop ushered the words he needed to say. “About a week ago, Chico got himself into some real trouble.” There was a burden in his voice, a heavy weight that he bore. Following a deep breath, Pop continued, “He and his friends thought they play a game they wasn’t ready for. Double-crossed Cottonmouth, stole some money during a gun run. Thought they could make a quick buck, but it went south.”

Luke raised an eyebrow, “Who’s Cottonmouth?”

“Harlem’s own kingpin. He’s starting to own the streets – dealing in drugs, guns and anything that that makes his pocket greener. He’s got connections, money and muscle – all hidden by his nightclub, Harlem’s paradise.” There was a glint in Pop’s eyes – a strange expression of pride which Luke couldn’t quite place. Luke once again raised an eyebrow, with a small twinge to his smile, weaving out some more information. “Back in the day, I was trouble. Real trouble, Luke. I rolled with Cornell – who got his name ‘cos he lost three teeth as a kid. His aunt was Mama Mabel, and even though I was the de factor leader, he was always bound for the top.”

Luke assumed there was a hidden depth to the story that didn’t quite matter, considering it was all just additional information which seemed primarily irrelevant. Luke crossed his arms and leant against the washing machine, “And Chico, what kind of trouble are we talking about?”

“Big trouble. You don’t cross Cottonmouth unless you’ve got a death wish.”

“He must’ve been desperate then-”

Pop interjected, “Desperate or plain foolish.” He shook his head in frustration, with a settling quiet between them, as he clearly prepared himself to continue telling the story he had at hand. “I’d set up a parlay for Chico – agreed with Cottonmouth that if Chico returned what he took, he’d let him walk free. I don’t know if it was a front, or some respect for the days we spent on the streets, but Cottonmouth was fairly reasonable.”

“Criminals are rarely reasonable, Pop.”

With a grim nod, Pop frowned. “I know, but I there weren’t many options. Chico’s just a kid, and I thought maybe, just maybe, we could get him out of this mess. Last thing I wanted was him ending up like his father – but now Chico’s vanished. He was supposed to meet me here, but he’s not showed up and I can’t seem to get hold of him.”

“So, you need my help finding him? Confronting Cottonmouth?” Luke wondered, prepared to do either for Pop. He’d seen enough of the fallout of crime in the saga of Jessica and Karen, that it almost seemed to be his duty to help.

“That’s the last thing I want, Luke.” Pop admitted quietly, shaking his head. A mixture of hope and desperation teemed in his eyes. “You don’t need to be in the crosshairs of Cottonmouth. But I thought, what with your… bulletproof-ness, that you could help find him. I’ve heard Cottonmouth has a safehouse on east side, 45^th, where he usually deals with the more unpleasant side of his business. It’s a long shot, but it might be where they’re holding Chico. I don’t know if that’s hope talking or not, but answers are always helpful.”

With determination hardening his features, Luke nodded. The love and desperation oozed from Pop’s eyes, and Luke felt nothing but a certainty that he was going to track down the cause. Luke patted Pop on the shoulder, gently as he could, smiling down to the man who reminded him so much of Reva. A part of him shattered at the thought, but he dismissed it altogether.

“You know, I thought you were always anti-hero.” Pop remarked, pushing himself from the stool. Trying to lighten the mood, a quiet chuckle resonated from his lips.

“I suppose you could say, I met the right people.” There was a hint of pride thrown towards Pop as he spoke. In his mind he considered the night he huddled around Jessica, trying his best to resist her strength. Bustling away was the thought that he did some good that night, even if it was just for one person.

“Well, thank you Luke – but be careful out there. I don’t care if your bullet-proof ass can fight everything off. One day it’ll catch up with you.” Luke threw open the door and simply shouted backwards a reminder about the swear jar – which erupted a small but happy smirk to lighten up Pop’s face. He watched as the sunlight glisten glazed over Luke as he opened the door, feeling a sense of hope burrow down.

Perhaps there was hope for Harlem.

Luke’s hulking body emerged from the stairwell, and paused for a moment. He made a mental note of which side was east and west, and north and south. Glancing around sceptically, he was tempted to ask Pop for clarification. But then his eyes observed the roughness of the streets, and help some assumption that he could figure it out pretty quickly.

“Luke!” A voice shouted from behind the man, prompting him to spin around. Even before he swivelled his around to find the source, he could hear the curiosity and chirpiness in the voice, and he promptly found himself staring back at two detectives. Clutched in both their hands were paper cups with steaming coffee burning away inside.

The eager voice belonged to the detective Luke had met earlier that year, and seen in passing during visits to Harlem. She had smooth skin and doe-like eyes, with short brown hair that earned a small waviness to it. Her blue shirt had unbuttoned sleeves and an unbuttoned top button, whilst dangling around her neck was her officer badge.

Beside her stood a woman who Luke couldn’t help but pause to look at. Glowing under the Harlem sun, Misty’s caramel skin was highlighted by the contours of her cheekbones. Her black hair was curly and powerful like a lion’s mane, framing her face with power and elegance. Most powerful and striking of all, were her eyes. They observed Luke, flirted with and analytically scanned him all at the same time.

“Detective.” Luke replied, eventually drawing his eyes away from Misty. “Can I help you with anything?”

“No – just curious to see why you’re passing through town.” There was a suspicion to her voice, laced beneath the polite greeting. She gestured towards Misty, introducing her first by thrusting her hand in her direction. “Luke this is my friend, Detective Knight.”

They exchanged pleasantries, a sultriness to her voice as she introduced herself with a firm grip matching Lukes. “You two partners then?” Luke asked, breaking the awkwardness that followed.

Misty shook her head, “No – just on lunch for now. My partner’s down the road – he’s not a big fan of coffee.”

“Nor am I.”

“I don’t believe that.” Misty remarked quickly, a whiplash of subtle flirting.

Whilst the flirting wasn’t quite missed by Brigid, she did her best to dismiss the growing tension between them. Afterall, she wanted to keep her focus on track. “I thought you weren’t from around Harlem.” Brigid pierced the silence that blossomed, as the pair exchanged suspicious glances to one another. Misty snapped herself out of her attraction, picking up on a tone in Brigid’s voice.

“I’m not – but I just came by to speak to Pop. He’s a bit upset at the moment.”

“Don’t blame him.” Remarked Misty, taking a brief glance down towards the barbershop as its glass glimmered in the sunlight. “Losing Chico after putting in so much work to make a better life for him.” There was a hint of interrogation to her voice, a prying for information that had emerged from the dropped flirtation as she returned back to work.

“Pop says Chico’s just vanished – some mess with Cottonmouth. Not that he’s dead.”

“Vanishing after crossing Cottonmouth? That’s the sign that we need to start making funeral plans. Cottonmouth is cold and brutal.”

“Glad to know the cops are doing something about it then.” There was a bitterness in his voice, as his mind flooded back to his days in prison. The years he served as an officer, only to be incarcerated for a crime he didn’t commit – whilst the true criminal roamed free.

Misty spun around with a raised eyebrow and fury in her eyes. Agitated, she prepared herself to bark back at Luke’s sly remark, only interrupted by Brigid’s wide-eyed realisation that she was about to blow. “Evidence – that’s the issue. Of course, we know and are trying. But his safehouses, locked behind warrants. His men, hired without contracts. His guns, lost in paperwork. Until we catch Cottonmouth up, there’s no luck.”

Luke glanced between the pair, with an idea sparked in his mind. “Still – the more you keep up like this, the more that people like Chico are going to go missing.”

The flirtatious tension that rang between Misty and Luke had almost dissipated now, whilst a cold and uncomfortable tension hung between them instead. Each of them considered Luke’s words, and contemplated the weight of them. In reality, they both saw the destruction by Cottonmouth in different ways.

Misty’s voice was calm and professional as she replied. Softer, but no less resolute. “We’re doing the best we can do. Treading a delicate balance, because without solid evidence any operation is compromised.”

Nodding her head in agreement, Brigid’s earnest eyes glanced up towards Luke. “She’s right – every step has to be calculated. One wrong move and we could lose everything we have for justice.”

“But if you take too long to get that justice, hasn’t injustice already won?” He wondered, with a tone that almost tremored the ground beneath them.

“I didn’t come for a debate on my lunch.” Misty remarked, beginning to walk off. “But nice meeting you Luke, maybe another time.” She raised her cup of coffee with a slight twinge to her smile, her eyes lit up with an expression which was easy to determine even from afar.

Luke grinned as she watched her, feeling his heart patter in his chest slightly – a strange sensation that he hadn’t felt in a considerable time. He turned back around, curious to note that Brigid hadn’t yet walked away. Promptly, he found her stood silently, waiting.

“123rd Street, Frederick Douglass Boulevard. Small building with a Jazz mural – side entrance next to the record store.” She reported quietly, before marching off with haste to catch up to Misty.

***

Luke enjoyed the safehouses for the musings of little men with measly guns, pelting bullets at him, which ricocheted off his impenetrable skin like raindrops cascading off a slick waterproof cloak. Whilst the smoke of impact steamed from his chest, and his hoodie was stained with an array of bullet holes, he emerged through the safehouses unharmed. Not a piece of skin shed, not a drop of blood lost.

The raid on the 45^th street seemed successful for Luke, as he barraged through with brute strength and tactical thinking. He barrelled through the narrow corridors and makeshift rooms, his offense carrying explosive force as he stormed through.

By the time he reached the small makeshift office, where drugs, money and guns were stashed – orderly and compactly, he’d thrown around a fair few of the thugs that patrolled the safehouse. Their bullets were wasted, their heads smacked, and the safehouse was torn apart but with nothing to show for it.

Luke frowned, but the true rage in his chest erupted was when he found a woman. She sat dazed and confused in a chair that almost enveloped her, staring up towards Luke with a tint of panic in her eyes, but a limpness in her body. Marring her skin were dark painful splotches, whilst her eyes glazed over with numbness. Luke shook his head, before crouching down to reach her level.

“Can you walk?” Luke asked, provoking a weak raise of an eyebrow from the woman.

“Of course I can – but I don’t want to.” With a heavy sigh, Luke crouched down and began to gently lift her from the chair. In his arms, she laid lightly, frail and fragile in his arms, draped across his muscular frame like a crumpled blanket. Adjusting his hold, he ensured she was secure in his arms, before marching back out.

The floorboards creaked with each step, though Luke’s eyes fixated on a cracked phone which rested on the floor besides one of the unconscious thugs.

In quick succession, Luke grabbed the phone, dial a number and held it towards his ears. Glistening with the dialling screen, the number of 911 flashed up, and he could hear the dispatcher’s voice immediately.  “There’s been a shootout on 45^th street – multiple gunshots, several injured – hurry as quick as you can.”

As Luke left the building seemingly empty handed, he was comforted by the notion he had found the police some evidence, and rescued the woman clutched in his arms.

*

Pop glanced towards Luke as he wandered through the back door, with the dazed woman limping by his side. Her eyes seemed to be adjusting to sunlight now, but it was clear that she was still suffering from whatever she had experienced in the safehouse.

Luke helped the woman find a seat, before handing her a glass of water, and throwing a freshly-dried towel over her shoulders as comfort. Her quivering body found some calm for once, focused solely on the flavour and feel of the water as she gulped it down with desperation.

Exchanging a glance, Pop and Luke asked and answered questions without uttering a word. No luck finding Chico, but damage to Cottonmouth had been dealt. A smirk lit up across Pop’s face, before he shut the door behind him and approached Luke and the woman carefully.

“Who – who are you?” Asked the woman, glancing up puzzled for a moment.

“Doesn’t matter who I am – what matters is that you’re safe.”

“Well, I am now.” The woman rubbed her head once she put the glass down, feeling an irritating headache burst across her brain. She winced slightly in pain, before glancing up to Luke. She panted heavily, “I’m Connie… I wasn’t really supposed to be saved. I snitched on a safehouse and Cottonmouth found out.”

Pop shot Luke a look, before commenting “Told you, dirty business.” They both returned their focus back to the woman, frowning as they watched her in pain.

“Don’t suppose you’ve seen a Chico Diaz in there?” Luke asked, cautiously tipping the focus onto the situation he was chasing.

The woman faintly recognised the name, her eyes locking with Luke’s as she considered the answer that she had available. She groaned in pain for a moment, before clearing her throat. “Not seen – but they mentioned a Chico. Said something about another safehouse. That he made a mistake coming back.”

Throwing concerned glances to one another, Luke and Pop both felt their hopes beginning to fade.

Written across Luke’s face was an animalistic fury. An anger at the very notion that Cottonmouth had betrayed the loyalty of Pop.

Parading through Harlem, Luke used the cover of night to storm through the safehouses with a force of nature. He’d drawn himself through seven other safehouses, each buried beneath unassuming locations, but rife with the goods he wanted and needed.

Luke had barged through a reinforced steel door of a side street storefront, sending splinters and dust flying, and a perfect display of a crime scene of the squad cars that cut through the darkness with their raging flashing lights. He’d torn down the metal doors of an abandoned warehouse, cloaked in graffiti and neglect, exposing the hastily and methodically packed bags. He broke windows of a loft apartment, smashed through the lobby of a nondescript office building, lurked through the basement of a rundown motel and barrelled through a disused factory in the outskirts of the town.

***

In the end, Luke Cage was brought to the Crispus Attucks Complex. A façade of a structure, a safehouse hidden in plain sight, of apartments that were yet to be used. Mariah Dillard’s passion project, misused by her cousin for the purpose of storage.

In your universe, this encounter plays out the same – but Luke Cage’s intention here is different. Whilst he sought revenge in your timeline, avenging the death of Pop, in this timeline he was on the search of two things: Chico, and Cottonmouth’s weak spot.

Chapter Text

Alliances are formed across heroes and villains in every story. But when timelines branch away like this, those alliances stray further from expectation. The dark twisted criminal world forms roots and connections to tackle the issues it never anticipated. New threads constantly written.

***

The dark oak of Cornell Stoke’s office in Harlem’s Paradise was complimented by the light warm glow of a drink’s cabinet, the sleek furniture and the painting of the Notorious B.I.G hanging high. The room was littered with a desk, a piano and vast windows that looked out into the streets of Harlem, whilst a circular one glared down into its paradise.

Sat apprehensively amongst the furniture was Mariah Dillard. Esteemed in the public eye for her initiative to restore Harlem, she was secretly shadier than anybody was quite aware. She sat with a binder by her side, full of notes she needed for the meeting she was called in for.

Meanwhile, Cornell paced the room, back and forth. Mariah couldn’t quite tell if her cousin’s movements were a sign of anxiety, or an expression of his mind busy at work. Perhaps he was deep in thought, or overwhelmed with terror. Neither would surprise Mariah, considering what she knew about her cousin.

Overnight, they had been struck with scandal and controversy – although the public image more so worked to shame Mariah than Cornell. With eight safehouses attacked, and the final one being Mariah’s passion project, the safety net of guns and cash and drugs were ripped away from Cornell’s grips. Rage coursed through his veins, his blood following suit.

Mariah had to find some explanation – expressed how it was a sign that even she wasn’t doing enough to support the men of the town. She used the opportunity to turn a rousing speech about improving Harlem even more, although she wasn’t quite sure if had yet landed the mark she was aiming for.

Promptly arriving on time, down to the exact minute, the doors to the mahogony-panelled office were jolted open. Cornell had been to lost in his own thoughts to have caught a glimpse of their visitor from his circular window, which overlooked the dance floor and bar. Meaning he was caught off guard as the vast and towering body of Wilson Fisk emerged into his office.

His white suit contrasted against the darkness of the room, bringing some blinding light to it as he strolled in with a gleaming smile written across his face. Wisdom and power laced his eyes, as he observed the two uptown bosses of crime.

“Mr Stokes, Mrs Dillard. It’s a pleasure.” His deep and slow voice was accompanied by a thrust of a hand to shake, and he smiled courteously.

“Welcome, Mr Fisk.”

“Please,” Wilson chuckled, seizing Cornell’s hand with a firm and powerful strength. The depth of his chuckle was a powerful testament to the man that Fisk was, as he grinned across to Cornell. “Call me Wilson.”

Cornell nodded his head, his grin gleaming already as they reached first-name terms. “Cornell.” He stated, nodding his head towards the suited man, before gesturing for him to take a seat. As Wilson did so, he glanced across and shook Mariah’s hand, who introduced herself as such.

“It’s an honour to meet the man behind the fight.” Remarked Mariah, smiling with a glint of tension in her eyes. “Hell’s Kitchen has seen a lot of trouble this past year.”

Wilson nodded his head and tilted it, before resting more comfortably in his seat. “Too much trouble for my liking. My intention is to make Hell’s Kitchen a safe city – to make New York a safe city.”

“And by New York, you’re including Harlem too.” Cornell grinned, pouring Wilson a small glass of whiskey, and placing it down on the expensive-looking glass table before him. Wilson, with a pedantic sense of nature picked up the drink and placed it on a coaster, examining the table for a mark made by the glass. “Because, in the case, we’re working towards the same goal.”

Wilson nodded his head as he peered towards the two who sat across him. Mariah felt that he was staring straight into her soul, whilst Cornell was oblivious. He cracked a bursting smile as he waited for Wilson’s response. Wilson kept the silence amongst them, savouring it as he did with a slow sip of whiskey. He felt the smooth burn down his throat, the warmth of which contradicted the icy glare in his eyes.

“Of course, Cornell. This city is vast and to bring it under true control, we must consider each and every corner. Every street, every neighbourhood. Harlem, is no exception. It has history and power, and people who understand it’s role in stability. People, like yourselves.” Wilson spoke with power. Calm, collected, and resting behind a convincing and charismatic smile.

Whilst Cornell took a sip of whiskey, trying to match Wilson, Mariah sat frozen. Her eyes cold and piercing and careful. “Harlem’s initiative is all about enriching and celebrating the lives of black folk. Why would we turn to you for help from a white man whose only just appeared from the shadows?” Mariah worded herself cautiously, being sceptically openminded to Wilson’s offer. Cornell shot her a furious glare, but Mariah paid him no attention. Instead, she watched Fisk intently, whose face smirked.

“I have no intention of interfering in Harlem, Mariah. When you are re-elected, councilwoman, you will do fine things for this neighbourhood. But my scope is larger than just these streets. My vision is to cure New York – because it has been tainted, even before aliens rained from the sky.”

“Harlem saw the Hulk tear through its streets. We know destruction, Wilson.” Mariah remarked, cutting him a cautious glare. She analysed his expression, watching as he slowly blinked and nodded his head.  

Wilson took another sip of the whiskey, feeling it burn down his throat again, as he swirled the glass in his hand, his mind recalled the reports of the Hulk. The fight between two mutated men barraging through the streets of Harlem.

“And I know you are perfectly capable of fighting against destruction. That Harlem can rebuild and thrive – but we all know that you want a guarantee at the table that’s designing that construction. You want hard hats and suits.” Wilson grinned as he had surfaced the true intention of Mariah. “I want order to defeat chaos. You want power, to defeat chaos. Different desires, same enemy.”

“Issue is,” Cornell remarked, snapping out of the suave position he was holding, before leaping forward. “With everything that’s happened, keeping control is harder. It’s pricier. We’ve had our safehouses attacked. Our guns, cash, operations all disrupted. Handed into police custody.” Cornell smirked as he intertwined his fingers and rested his elbows on the arms of the seat. “We can rebuild Harlem, but we’re looking for investors.”

Fisk’s expression was hard to decipher. He completed the final swig of his whiskey and planted it down, before sliding back into a comfortable position. He rested his arm on the arm rest and stared directly at Cornell.

What was most extraordinary about Wilson, was his ability to own silence. Absence of noise was his own noise, it was in his hands, determined by his whims. The sound of cars and people outside even appeared to dispel in this quiet that Wilson held, like he had power over everything and anything.

“Those attacks were not random, Cornell. I’ve seen the like back in Hell’s Kitchen. Vigilantes, undermining you. Trying to destabilise your grip. Disrupt your plans.” Wilson stood up and wandered towards the window which overlooked the dance floor of Harlem’s paradise. Below him was a stage, with a performer busy rehearsing, lighted perfectly by the array of blue and red lights. “I have no intention of investing, Mr Stokes. I intend on saving New York from vigilantes. And we can exploit this attempt to threaten your power as an opportunity in disguise.”

Furrowing her brow, and now catching a scent of Wilson’s true manipulative intentions, Marriah responded with some frustration. “Opportunity for what?”

Wilson turned around slowly, each step sending a slightly powerful tremor across the room. “Councilwoman – this vigilante is a criminal. They are not trained by law, they are not hired by the state. They have trespassed, attacked and stolen from properties. People will want to applaud their fight against crime – but we? We will make them see the dangers.” Wilson turned to Cornell and grinned. “You can show Harlem the consequence of crossing you. It’s my understanding that a young man, Chico Diaz, and his friends crossed you recently too.”

Cornell felt his fist clench slightly at the mere mention, readjusting his seat as he grew more uncomfortable with the image of Chico in his mind. He recalled the rage he had felt, the way his veins felt like they were ready to burst from his veins.

“My focus ain’t playing with power.” Cornell stated bluntly, powerfully, managing to hold a silence as he readjusted his jacket. His clenched fist rolled around the edge of his chair. “This attack was personal. They wanted to embarrass me.”

Wilson’s face remained unchanged, and he re-approached the chair he had been sat in moments prior. “Reacting with emotion will make the situation worse – you need to be calculated. Strike back with precision."

“Fancy notion, but it won’t get us anywhere. Not exactly like we know who we’re even striking.”

Mariah leaned forward, lining her words was intrigue and determination. “Politically, it could work. Praise the efforts of the police, but disregard the actions of a low-life Avengers’ wannabe. We could – I don’t know – announce a strategy to tackle vigilantism.”

Wilsom smiled at Mariah, as she caught his wavelength. He nodded his head with a glisten of pride burning in his eyes, “Strategy first. We must gather intelligence on those who carried out the attacks – use their motives and networks against them. Using brute force alongside a statement. A show of defiance. A demonstration that there are consequences to vigilantes.”

“You’re talking about… a full-scale operation. But we got no cash, no guns.”’

Mariah cleared her throat, drawing the attention away from Cornell’s narrowed eyes and frustration. “We’ve been fighting fires all over Harlem. Trying to make small victories, losing to small issues. But if we control the narrative, fight back in complete resistance.” She was enthralled by Wilson’s proposals.

Cornell glanced shiftily towards his cousin, before peering back to the imposing stature of Wilson Fisk. “I was looking forward to this meeting, Wilson. I was hoping an alliance could do us some good. But the more I hear you talking, the more it feels like this isn’t an opportunity for us. But just for you.”

Wilson re-adjusted himself, leaning forward and locking eyes with Cornell. Stern fury blazed in his eyes, before uttered but a few words. “What are your ambitions, Mr Stokes?” With an eyebrow raised, Wilson changed the fire in Cornell’s stomach to a discomfort. He considered the answer – before a powerful grin etched itself across his face.

“I’m gonna rule Harlem.” Cornell smirked and chuckled, pride growing in his gluttnous and greedy eyes. Mariah shook her head, whilst Wilson simply nodded.

“Aim higher, Mr Stokes. You’re a powerful man – but your narrow-view of the world is long gone. Nobody rules over neighbourhoods today. They rule over cities, and governments and countries. You want power? You want to big king, like the Notorious B.I.G up there? Then you need ambition. Your cousin has those ambitions. She wants power – political power.”

Pushing himself to his feet, Wilson stared down towards Cornell, who promptly leapt to his feet in an attempt to match the towering, hulking statue of a man. Mariah crossed her arms in curious observation, before meeting Fisk’s eyes. “I’ll hold a press conference, councilwoman. We will fight those vigilantes in public. And Mr Stokes,” He turned his head towards Cornell, a glimmer of power in his eyes. “We’ll find the source of your… safehouse issue.”

As Wilson wandered out and Mariah escorted him to the entrance of the club, Cornell’s eyes caught a glimpse of his reflection in the black sunglasses of Shades. In his stomach he felt dread, as the lurking and lingering eyes of Diamondback still followed him.

Mariah stormed back into the dark office, slamming the door shut behind her with a power in her step. Her eyes darted around the room, noticing the drooling lapdog of Diamondback perched in the corner of the room.

“We’re in deep shit, Cornell. I don’t trust Fisk, but we don’t have any other choice.” Mariah’s voice raged through the office, and she promptly poured herself a glass of liquor which she ripped from the cabinet. The glugging of the bottle resonated loudly, being the only sound caught for a moment, as Mariah hovered over the seats.

“Of course you did.” Commented Shades, his hands clasping around he frame of his glasses. Revealing his deadest beady eyes, he stared intently at Mariah, before turning back to Cornell. “Diamondback ain’t gonna like the fact that you’re seeking investors.”

“Fisk got his own games – we’re using Fisk too. As much as he uses us.” His expression and voice hardened, a mixture of anger and determination flaring in his voice. Although he seemed to be trying to reassure Shades, the slither of desperation in his rage suggested it failed to even work on himself.

“We’re walking a tightrope with Fisk.” Mariah swivelled around and stared at Shades and Cornell, power burned in her eyes. The glare of Mama Mabel, the ferocity and determination. Resilience, persistence. “Both of you better watch your asses. Because everything here could come crashing down with one wrong move. So you, Shades, are gonna keep your lips shut. And Cornell, you are going to make sure that nothing like yesterday ever happens again.”

Cornell instinctively laughed. “Oh, you giving me orders now? Black Mariah.” There was a cruelty to Cornell’s teasing words which provoked the rage in Mariah even more. The mere mention of the name sent a surge of anger to shoot through her body, and she launched the glass of whiskey that she held firmly in her hand, across the room. She watched as the glass shattered, the whiskey staining the wall. The shattering sound coupled with her screaming rage brought the room to a silence moments later.

“I am fixing your god damn mess! If you hadn’t trusted those little shits like Chico – or better secured your fucking safehouses. We wouldn’t need the damn help of Wilson Fisk.”

“Always blaming the man, eh?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You know what it means.” Cornell’s comment dug a deep and powerful pain from Mariah, whose fuming rage was tempted to lash out against him. But promptly, Shades stepped forward. His face illuminated by the light above, and he glanced between them both cautiously.

“I think it’s best we calm down. We’re in a dangerous game, last thing you guys need is a civil war between yourselves.”

“Anything she does ain’t civil.” Cornell spat, shooting her a furious look, before glancing back to Shades. “I need you working on finding who this vigilante is.”

Mariah stormed out of the office with a powerful determination in her stride. It was evidence of the focus she held in her mind, and she knew she was the best hope her family had of redeeming its name. The shit they were in was deep, but they had always thrived in pressure – so this was no different. Her mind lingered on her uncle Pete for a moment, a feeling of sickness and rage bottled in her stomach, but she then recalled Cornell pulling the trigger.

Cornell watched her carefully from the window. Aligned perfectly behind him was the crown, which the Notorious B.I.G adorned in the blood red painting. He rubbed his knuckles, feeling the coldness of his rings, before a sense of pride and power overcame him.

He thrived on challenge, and would do whatever it took to come out on top. Picking up his phone to make a call, a dark determination settled over him. He knew what he needed to do to make Harlem his kingdom and nothing and nobody – not vigilantes, police or even Wilson Fisk – could stand in his way.

Cornell Stokes was ready for war.

***

“With the assistance of law enforcement and community leaders and every law-abiding citizen, we will reclaim our city. Here in Harlem, and in Hell’s Kitchen!” Fisk’s fierce and powerful voice rang through the office, as Misty Knight stared at the various photographs of Cottonmouth’s safehouses. The man’s voice resonated from Scarfe’s computer, who sat with his feet on the table, peeling away a banana as he watched the Fisk/Dillard press announcement.

The broadcast had drawn her out of her attempt to place herself at the crime scene. She reconvened in the office, under the dim light of the desk lamps. Facing her were a variety of crime scene photos, detailing the stashes found and the evidence available in their investigation.

Each safehouse was similar in one specific regard. Hundreds of bullets, but not a single drop of blood – at least none it seemed to be from the troops who had patrolled through the safehouses with ferocious intent.

“Eight safehouses – all handed directly to us. Cottonmouth’s ass served on a silver platter – only really lacking the main ingredient.” Misty frowned as her eyes jumped from photograph to photograph, before Scarfe sat besides her. He too analysed the photos, but reaching the same conclusion as Misty.

“Not a shred of evidence to pin on Cottonmouth.”

“Makes you think – why did somebody go to all these efforts in the first place?” Misty tilted her head, trying to catch the photographs from a literal different angle. A burden of weight dragged out a heavy sigh, and she shut her eyes in an attempt to reconsider the events that she was seeing splayed across the photographs. “He had no reason to do this.”

“Let’s not get into the same argument as we did earlier. I get it, you think vigilantes are bad.” Scarfe chuckled as he returned to his seat. He threw his arms up jokingly, but his eyes kept focused on the wall of evidence. “Whoever it is, wanted to help.”

“If we assume that’s the reason, the question is the method.” Misty remarked, not moving any closer to her seat. She plucked a photograph ripped from CCTV, where a hooded figure strolled from the doors of Crispus Attucks. “Are we looking at a man in a bulletproof vest?”

“They’re cheap for the right price.” Scarfe commented, teasing Misty’s raging scepticism.

“No – there’s something we’re missing… Something new.” Misty raced her mind through her past few days, trying to find the source of anything that could disrupt the balance of Harlem. Yet, as she rifled through everything she could recall, her mind focused solely on Brigid’s friend. She recalled Luke’s face, his stature, the way he carried himself – before staring down at the photograph she’d torn from the wall. “I – I’ll be back later.”

“Shift ends in 30!” Scarfe shouted, his voice futile as she darted out of the office. He remained in his seat, his eyes focused on the wall of evidence. With a deep and heavy sigh, Scarfe felt ever irritated by Cottonmouth’s inability to prevent a situation like this.

All he needed was some peace – his time as a corrupt cop was supposed to be easy and well-paid. A few lost pieces of paperwork, insider information, attention paved elsewhere – but now he felt it was too close for home. Too close to crumbling altogether.

Scarfe shiftily glanced up towards the glass windows of the office, which were converted by blinds, before reaching into an insider pocket for a flip phone. Even from a mile away it was clearly a burner phone, but the absence of anybody around made it easier to use.

After a prompt dialling of a number, Scarfe’s voice turned quiet. “Meet me by the docks in 20.” He instructed, with some clear positive response met by the person on the other end, as he quickly shot the pocket back into it’s discreet spot.

Chapter Text

Even without it’s head, a cockroach can survive a week. Without food, it can survive a month.  I once compared Kilgrave to a cockroach, but not anymore.

Because Kilgrave isn’t a cockroach. He isn’t a devil. He isn’t a monster.

Kilgrave is a man. A man who can walk into a room, demand what he wants, and leave with it in his hand. He is a man who can vanish for nine months, return, die, and make everyone’s life a living hell afterwards.

But the question is, is Kilgrave really a dead man?

***

Jessica watched as the doctor’s body was hauled away by the ambulance, covered in a white sheet and laid upon a stretcher. There was a flurry of activity under the blue flashing of lights, glaring through the windows. The blinding flashes drowned the lobby into a barraging, headache-inducing state of disorienting lights.

Glancing around, Jessica watched as two police officers questioned the receptionist, whose voice was quiet and trembling. She watched as two men in forensics gear assessed the doctor’s lobby, whilst the medical crew from the ambulance began to pack up. With some final check-ups, they smiled back at the two women, before heading back out from the lobby.

Trapping herself in thought, Jessica circled her mind and questions in a repetitive cycle. She considered what she’d learnt – what it suggested. There was a strategy planted behind her baby. There was a mystery not worth told by a living man. Dead centre of the questions was: How did Kilgrave fit into it all?

Eventually, the two men questioning the receptionist approached Jessica. They glanced down at Jessica with gruff and serious brown eyes. Lining their chins were shoddily shaven beards. Black plaided outfits with flecks of hi-vis materials flickered under the glares of the flashing lights. One man held a reassuring and comforting smile, whilst the other clasped onto a scribbled notepad.

“Lady at the reception says there was a struggle in the doctor’s office.” Commented the officer, not needing to glance down at his notes for reference. It almost seemed as though he had memorised her story completely, etched the words into his mind, envisioned how it had all played out.

Glaring up, her face caught under the cascade of harsh blue flashes, she shook her head. “I was attacked by the doctor,” She pulled down a scarf which decorate her neck, revealing red marks which were beginning to slowly take shape as bruises. One of the officers took a quick note down in his notepad, whilst the other officer stared at it curiously for a moment.

“Any particular reason he attacked you?” Asked the officer with a reassuring smile, sitting down beside her, to avoid the intimidating stance he appeared to hold. Jessica glanced towards him, before letting out a heavy sigh.

Despite her desire to keep the situation to herself, she was aware of the particular need for honesty.

Her eyes flicked between the two officers. “Last month, I gave birth in this hospital. I don’t remember much of it, but something happened to the baby. And they won’t tell me what.” The two officers exchanged uncomfortable expressions, awkward and shifty. Jessica’s story sounded like the stereotypical report from a mother-gone-crazy, and that perspective in this situation only made matters worse. “I’m telling you – the situation is far more complex than that. The father was a man called Kilgrave! He had… abilities. Mind control abilities.”

The officer’s expressions appeared to grow in discomfort, slowly growing to the realisation that the woman before them was more than likely unwell. Terror flashed in Jessica’s eyes – an uncertain discomfort.

Although, as they began to make a move to addressing Jessica’s apparent insanity, the receptionist leapt in, her voice ringing with desperate pleading. “She- She’s telling the truth, officers.” Sheepishly glancing between them, the woman fidgeted with her hands. Her eyes enamoured by fear, as though something had provoked a suppressed memory in her mind. “Kilgrave had us perform the childbirth – but he had Dr Stewart take the baby.”

The man sat beside Jessica glanced towards his fellow officer with some suspicion, confused by the situation that appeared to be unfolding. Meanwhile his partner appeared unphased, turning back to Jessica. “This physical altercation between you both – is that what killed him?”

“No!” Offence laced Jessica’s voice as she glanced between them with a glimmer of outrage. “He used a syringe. He said he couldn’t tell me anything – but then, with his dying words, he told me to check the black cabs.” She reported, replaying the image of Dr Stewart lying dead in her arms, his raspy dying voice used to aid Jessica.

The officer sat beside Jessica interjected promptly, leaning forward towards the receptionist with a cautious glimmer in her eyes. “Does that mean anything to you?” He wondered, attracting her attention. The glimmer flickered for a moment, but he disregarded the faint shift in expression as she nodded her head. “Dr Stewart had us make notes of the black cab licence plates he called in…”

“Why would he ask you to do that?” Questioned the notepad-holding officer, with a sense of urgency and rage tinting his voice. The woman’s eyes shifted towards him with nervousness, feeling uneasy as she prepared the answer.

“I-” She stopped herself, pretending to be caught off guard as she paused. “I don’t know – but I can show you.” Leaping to her feet, Jessica followed behind her, focusing all of her energy and attention on the woman as she followed.

As Jessica went to follow the woman, she felt the grip of the officer's clasp around her wrist. Their eyes were furious and impatient, staring at Jessica with indistinguishable anger. But there was something else. Deep beneath the seething frustration was a fear – a reluctance. The eyes of a victim of Kilgrave…

“Miss Jones, we’re not done here. We need you to come with us to the station.” The officer’s words snapped her out of the revelling thoughts that had begun to consume her, and she shook her head in an attempt to rid the growing suspicion that consumed her. Jessica twisted and shook her wrist in such a way that the officer instantly let go, thrust away by force and direction.

Following the receptionist back to the desk, where Jessica had stood not too long prior pleading to be provided some information. Creaking loudly, the seat beneath the woman adjusted itself, as she leaned forward and entered her password. “Dr Stewart had us delete the CCTV and phone numbers when certain clients passed through – but he had a log of licence plates. Dr Stewart was a strange man, but he was practically our boss.”

“He did the same for Kilgrave?” Jessica asked, prompting a nod from the woman’s head. The loading log-in screen reflected in her eyes. “But why keep the other information on the system?” Jessica wondered, thinking back to the trouble she had earlier that evening.

“He doesn’t. It’s all wiped.”

“But you were looking at it earlier.” Jessica prompted, “You had to have been – you said you weren’t here on the night.”

Guilt glistened in the woman’s eyes, but she promptly focused her attention to the computer. She siphoned through documents and emails, finally arriving to a single notepad file. Lines of dates and licence plate numbers flickered upon the screen, in a horrible typewriter-style font, simply displayed upon the screen.

Jessica prompted an answer from the woman, whose shimmering shame burst through her eyes. She’d scrolled through the document, landing on October 3^rd, before finally answering the question. “Not officially – but when you were called in, I swung by.” Once again, her eyes shiftily observed the officers, who hovered across the lobby with sceptical eyes fixated on Jessica. The woman lowered her voice. “Dr Stewart was a contracted doctor sometimes. People sought out his help and he’d complete it, no questions asked.”

“Who was he contracted by?” There was a pause of hesitation. A silence fell between them, as the woman retrieved a sheet of paper, jotting down five letters, before sliding it into Jessica’s hand. Glancing down to the note, Jessica looked at the capitalised word HYDRA. Although, for a moment, the name meant nothing.

“What’s HYDRA?” She whispered, watching as the woman dug into one of her drawers, and printed off the list of black cabs. “Is it another hospital? He said a ward had my baby. Did he send them off to another hospital? Another medical facility?” Wondered Jessica, prompting a puzzled expression to replace the anxiety in the receptionist’s face.

The receptionist reeled her head back upwards to Jessica, matching the puzzlement written across her face for a moment. Clasped in her hand was a dossier and sown in her mouth were answers. Plastered to the front was the printed list of black cab licence plates, with the key ones in question highlighted automatically.

“No!” Her mind a flurry of activity as she stared back to Jessica. The receptionist reached into the dossier and threw it open and revealed a blurry CCTV photograph of a man.  With a rigid and confident posture, the tall man stood with a militaristic instinct. Although partially obscured by the grainy quality of the footage, there was no doubting the man had a strong jawline and short, neatly-groomed hair. Donning a dark, possible leather jacket, his appearance seemed causal, yet tactical.

The small eruption of activity provoked a suspicious glare from the officers, who began to stride towards her. The woman’s face grew more stressed and panicked, her eyes fixed on the officer with the notepad specifically.

“HYDRA is a terrorist organisation. SHIELD – the one with the hele-carrier that fell in New York – they are trying to find HYDRA. They stationed me here. But specifically Ward - your baby was given to a man called Wa-” The woman’s frantic explanation was abruptly silence by a deafening gunshot which tore through the lobby. The bullet had pierced the air and shattered the woman’s head in a brutal explosion of blood, with the spray splattering across the ceiling, walls and Jessica’s face in a horrific arc.

Jessica’s hands tightened around the dossier, since it remained the only evidence of what the woman had told her. Pounding in her ears, her heart beat with sheer terror. Her head swivelled around, fixing on the suspicious officer, whose hands now trembled uncontrollably with the pistol clasped in his hands. It smoked slightly, wafting past his eyes which burned with a haunting mix of fury, guilt and fear.

The officer beside him jumped to disarm him, and despite the lack of struggle he put up, the murdering officer still kept his gaze on Jessica. Behind them was a hollow pleading expression, as he felt the weight of his actions, but a force compelling him.

Instinct overcame Jessica, as she barged past the officers and raced towards the door. Throwing aside officers’ attempts to stop her, she burst throw the door, almost bringing the door to a shattering swing.

The image of the woman burned into her brain, as she continued to race through the empty streets of London. Her legs pounded the floor in terrified need of escape, like a jaguar racing the streets with no hope of being caught.

Even once she reached the hotel, she jumped up towards her window and climbed in through that way, panting and drenched in blood and street, as her eyes observed the room. The events flashed in her mind in quick succession, the process of burning them complete like a disc now engrained with the needed data.

A knife shattered the wall beside Jessica, launching her into a frozen panic, before her eyes were met by Trish’s in the barely-illuminated dark. “Jess! What the-” Irritation covered Trish, who sighed with annoyance as she clicked on the lamp and drowned the room in the bright light of the lamp. Yet, as Trish saw her sister’s face, she lunged across the room in a frantic panic. Her arms clasped onto her sisters, analysing her for any marks, but finding none.

“We need to go.”

“But we haven- Jess, where did you go?”

“The hospital. The doctor was a HYDRA agent, tried to kill me, before killing himself. Then a police officer killed a woman who, I think, was a SHIELD agent.” Panic crossed Jessica’s face, whose trembling hands still clasped onto the dossier. The words shot out of her mouth like bullets, rapidly shot without a break nor pause.

“Jessica, slow down. Where is your baby?”

“No idea. But she said a man called Ward took my baby.” She threw open the dossier and rifled through the small notes and photographs, landing on the man she had been shown earlier. Trish glanced down, dismissing the instinct to comment on the handsomeness of the man, and instead focusing on a few other documents inside.

“SHIELD was dissolved. When helecarriers fell to New York. I remember covering it on TrishTalks.” She continued rifling through the files, finding very little of actual value, before stumbling across a worn-piece of paper.

Jessica shook her head, “If this man, Ward, knows where my baby is, he probably knows about Kilgrave. I trust this woman. She died right before my eyes – SHIELD has to still be in operation.” Trish threw her sister a glance, coupled with a raised eyebrow, it appeared she bore the answer. Clasped in her fingers was a sheet of paper, folded and aged.

HUNTER – EVACUATION – CALL

“They can’t exactly be covert if they’re handing out numbers.” She commented, pointing towards the phone number sketched beneath it. Jessica and Trish exchanged cautious glances, but both having reached a point where pure terror had struck them deeply. The conversation kept the image from replaying in her mind, but she couldn’t help but feel the burdening weight of guilt. “Do we call it?” Trish wondered, glancing up towards her sister with panic in her eyes.

Reluctantly, Jessica fell silent. She didn’t want to answer, it felt easier to leave Trish’s question in the air. Yet, as her sister’s eyes locked onto her, she felt the compulsion to reply. Her eyes glanced down towards the list of cabs, catching sight of the highlighted licence plate of the cab on October 3^rd. For a moment, she considered the possibility that it could be done herself – but then she considered it realistically.

With a heavy sigh, Jessica nodded her head. “Call it.”

***

Life in New York was shit. The world was always on the brink of ending, and there was always some bigger asshole waiting around a corner to make life miserable. We had aliens and planes and gods crash into the city, and yet my every day brought me to men. Men cheating, men lying, men with fucked up abilities to ruin shit you’d built up for yourself.

But then, with the touch of a button and a phone number rang, all that shit seemed menial. It seemed pointless, because in the grand scheme of the world, these men whose wives and daughters and sisters and mothers wanted tracking down… they weren’t the problem.

It was the men in suits.

***

Jessica and Trish had regretted their agreement to meet in the designated spot. They each stood, with suitcase and dufflebag in hand, freezing at the top of a car park. The bitter nip of the cold air rife around them. Beneath them groaned the streets of London, as it began to stir into life.

However, as they began to feel the freezing chill to the air bite away at their skin, their ears picked up on a heavy blast of wind. A force propelled from above them, scattering dirt and litter away in an almost perfect circle around them.

As they glanced up, they saw nothing to quite cause the eruption of cold air forcing its way outwards. Except, their eyes met a break in the clouds and a strange shifting pattern that appeared form a metallic design. A heavy groaning sound of an engine bellowed before the, before they watched a large unusually shaped plane appear before them.

It landed almost perfectly in the spot, with the back facing them, primed perfectly for the slow reveal of the cargo bay.

A blinding white light appeared from inside, as the back cargo door began to descend into a ramp. The pristine metal glistened under the white light, whilst the heavy engines turned to a standby mode as it waited for Jessica and Trish to board.

Wandering down the ramp were two men. The first, was a man whose face looked kind and calm, his composure well kept. Beneath his expression was a hint of confidence, perhaps more expressed by the short and neatly combed hair which sat upon his head. Despite every expectation the pair had, neither this man nor the other wore a suit which resembled that of what they expected of SHIELD. Beside him wandered a rugged man, whose scruffy and unshaven look contrasted greatly to the other. He wore a leather jacket and jeans, with messy hair and a sense of informality.

Behind them, the ramp began to ascend, slotting into place and cloaking the metallic ship in an invisible coat once.

“Patsy?” The well-combed man responded abruptly, eagerly scurrying down the ramps to shake hands with Trish. “I- I remember your show, It’s Patsy.”

Trish nodded her head, now feeling that the invisibility that London had granted her was lost. She exchanged a wary glance to Jessica, which promptly faded, almost confirming that the man could be trusted. Nevertheless, she tightened her grip on her suitcase and looked back towards the men.

Awkwardly laughing, Trish quietly remarked. “Well, it was a kids show.”

The man glanced nervously, almost guilty as his words dropped out of his mouth for a moment. In the moment of awkward silence, the rugged man from beside him jumped him, smiling at the pair with a reassuring glance. “I assume you’re the women who called?” The rugged man’s voice was noticeably English, surprising both Trish and Jessica for a moment.

“Of course it’s us, dipshit.” Retorted Jessica with teeming frustration. “You think we’re freezing our asses on a carpark roof for no reason? What kind of meeting spot is this? Wasn’t SHIELD loaded?”

“It was.” Remarked the well-kept man, smiling at the pair. “But then HYDRA ended up ruining everything. And then Sokovia buried any hope of positive public opinion. But here we are, the remnants. Fighting problems that are more important than vacation flights. So, why are we here?” The man glanced down at their bags, before glaring stare. His voice changed from an upbeat happiness to a stern seriousness within seconds.

The rugged man interjected. “An agent I had placed watching a HYDRA affiliate was killed. They were there.”

“Well, actually, Jess was there.” Trish remarked, trying to avoid letting Jessica make any more comments that would anger the men. “But we were here looking for a baby.”

“Cute. I’ve always said adoption was reall-”

“She’s my sister.” Trish promptly commented, catching Jessica’s irritation beginning to boil in the corner of her eyes. “She was kidnapped, by a man called Kilgrave and-” Her mention of the name provoked an exchange of a curious glance between the two men. Without words, they expressed their recognition, which was enough to trigger Jessica to jump in.

“You know Kilgrave?” She questioned abruptly, an interrogative tone lining her words.

“The name’s come up in interceptions. But, we assumed it was a codename.”

“It is.” Jessica sighed with angered despair. “A codename for a British asshole with mind control abilities. Chose the name because he’s got a crap relationship with his parents. A crappy relationship which he resolved by kidnapping me and getting me pregnant, before handing that baby over to a guy called Ward.” Once again, the pair shared an exchange of looks, as they recognised the name once again. Except, this time, a slither of rage slipped into the rugged man’s eyes. Jessica rolled her eyes in frustration.  “Why don’t you just tell us everything?”

The well-kept man smirked at the suggestion, looking back to Jessica with a proud and joyful glee. “It’s better we do this on the Zephyr One. You two seem to need us, and it seems we might need you.” The man stretched out his hand, it creaked slightly, and was wrapped in a black leather glove. “Phil Coulson, Director of SHIELD.”

“Jessica Jones.” She remarked, not quite matching the enthusiasm that laced his face.

As the pair wandered up the ramp, they entered the sleek interior of the Zephyr One. It was a blend of high-tech design, with control panels and screens lining the wall, and purpose-over-aesthetic. The walls were bare besides the technology, the lights were bright, and a stairwell led upwards to a balcony which followed into the rest of the ship.

Coulson and the rugged man, who introduced himself as Hunter, led them through to a small room glistening with blue screens. Seats lined some of the computers, although they were vacant for the jet’s small dispatched mission.

Coulson tapped a small communication link button on the wall, informing the pilot they were free to take off, before gesturing for the pair to take a seat. “We should get comfortable, the Zephyr One isn’t exactly a five-star hotel.” The man oozed with casual competence, a grin etched across his face as he made small quips and remarks.

“So, you know who Ward is?”

“He used to work for SHIELD. Turned out to be a double agent.” Coulson explained briefly, sighing deeply with some sadness about the truth that had been revealed to them after years of service.

“Not to mention the prick tried to kill my wife.” Hunter remarked, swivelling his head around with utter fury. “We’ve been hunting him down for sometime – but we just haven’t found him. Moment I do, he’s getting what’s coming for him.”

An expression of concern lit up across Coulson’s face, before he turned back around to the women. He clicked a few buttons on a keyboard, before bringing up the photographs of Ward across the screens. “HYDRA fell – but it wouldn’t surprise me if Ward is rebuilding it. But I don’t understand, why would he take your baby?”

Jessica glanced towards Trish, a glimmer in her eyes asking for help, as the past few years still glistened as a black-out blur, with nothing quite distinguishable. The Zephyr One roared with life beneath them, with the hum of the engines and soft whir of the systems calming the panic that began to blossom in her mind.

“As Jess said before, Kilgrave was able to control people’s mind. He could spread a virus, and that virus made people do what he wanted. He went on the run, kidnapped Jess because he was obsessed with her, but returned to New York to help a ninja group called ‘The Hand’. Kilgrave was killed-”

“Kilgrave asked to be killed.” Jessica interjected, holding a tone of disbelief as she did. “But that’s not like him. I keep telling everybody this, but Kilgrave wouldn’t kill himself. There’s a strategy behind this – and if he’s working with Ward or HYDRA, or whoever, then I don’t think we know the full story. I don’t know why Ward would want my child, but I could assume it was part of a gambit to get a mind-controlling asshole and his possible child on side.”

Hunter’s eyes narrowed, his rugged demeanour turned serious. “Mind control. If HYDRA have that, then it’s a new level of dangerous.”

“Yes, it is.” Jessica agreed, nodding. “And Kilgrave is meticulous. Every detail is planned for – to the point, we won’t know. He orchestrates things, sits in the shadows, and manipulates events. Getting exactly what he wants, and making it seem like the world turned perfectly.”

“But Kilgrave is dead, Jess!” Trish rested her hand on Jessica’s legs, but Jessica’s eyes told a different story.

“The officer tonight… he had the same look that every victim of Kilgrave has… And his actions weren’t normal – they didn’t have a purpose. They didn’t have- emotion.”

“So Kilgrave might be alive?” Coulson asked, with some concern etching itself into his face. Jessica’s nod confirmed that thought, which prompted his features and determination to harden with determination. “SHIELD is all about fighting threats like Kilgrave – but this might be something even beyond us. We will need your help.”

“I don’t do teamwork, Coulson.” Jessica shook her head, her rejecting words instantly spouted.

“Maybe not, but this doesn’t seem like a threat you can take on yourself. And… I don’t think it’s one you want to take on yourself…”

***

Sometimes, when you’re tangled in the chaos and mess of life, it feels like a never-ending maze. The walls are closing in, but every step you take leads you deeper into the labyrinth.

SHIELD thinks it’s the answer, but I’m trapped in a game I don’t think I can win. Kilgrave’s persistence to live, my baby’s uncertain fate… it all seems interwoven into this tapestry. Demons, real and metaphorical are easy to fight, but this puzzle doesn’t seem within my reach.

Sometimes I wonder, when I fall asleep and am caught between that cusp of consciousness and nightmare.

What if Kilgrave never saved that Matt Murdock?

Chapter Text

Time.

Space. 

Reality.

The Multiverse grows, and the lives led by these heroes expand and change with each passing moment.

I pondered the question of ‘What if Kilgrave saved Matt Murdock?’, yet now I see this timeline has changed beyond that question.

For Matt Murdock is safe now, and the world churns on in the safe knowledge that the man masquerading as a devil has fallen. The players in these divergent changes of fate have now set themselves in motion for a new story.

Luke Cage sets off his own mission, parallel but not similar to the one in your universe. His lack of familiarity with Cottonmouth has its own adverse effects on the ripples of time, as Cottonmouth grows stronger without the meeting with Luke Cage.

Jessica Jones sets off through the sky, returned back to a secret base, holding key information and a core desire to hunt down her child and to ensure the death of it’s father remains permanent.

The single ripple of that night has irreversibly changed the fate of this world forever. Events that were fundamental never occurred, people who should’ve met never have, whilst people who were never destined to meet, were now standing side-by-side.

Before I ponder the new question, and take you on a new journey, it is important that we take one final glance at Matthew Murdock, whose life has changed almost beyond recognition.

***

Flashing in his mind, Matt could hear the grunts and groans of Stick, as a knife severed through his heart. He remembered the foul stench of blood, the stench of rich iron, and the radiating warmth that emitted itself from the pooling stain that burned itself onto the ground.

He remembered hovering over Stick’s body, whose limpness had let go of Elektra. His ears were the key reliance on distinguishing between life and death, besides the agonising pain in his chest.

Collapsing to the floor, Stick called out for Matt. In panting, broken, terrified words, Stick clutched onto Matt with desperation. “Matty – the only way… to kill the serpent, is by… by… cutting off it’s head.”

Matt clasped onto his hand, begging and pleading not to have lost another person close to him. For all intents and purposes, the slither of hate that overrode his feelings for Stick, were still swamped by a massive amount of love had for the man. But rage and abandonment hid that feeling, until now. As he felt the life draining out of him. As his ears caught the sound of Madam Gao escaping in quick succession. As he heard the cops raiding the building above.

“No, Stick – You- You can’t die.” Matt pleaded desperately.

“Matty, don’t- don’t get sentimental.” Stick coughed violently, blood beginning to pour from his mouth as he began to feel the end drawing nearer. “Win the war, Matty. But- but don’t do it alone.”

It was a memory Matt had even hesitated to tell the therapist he’d been made to attend. The death of a man who meant so much to him, happening within his very hands, besides the woman he loved. Any therapist would have a field day dissecting the emotions that arose out of that, but for Matt it took many forms and tries to understand it.

*

The first night, in an attempt to process it, Matt had stuck by the docks. The cold nip of the air, alongside the filthy salty smell of the sea. The creaking of metal cargo crates, and the hundreds of sounds that resonated from the sitting boats. The guards, the smell of drugs and rattling of guns. All of it combined to create a sensory nightmare, which Matt could easily navigate through.

He drew nearer, stood inches away from a guard, whose guns clutched in his hand rattled around the corner. Yet, the instinct to punch and disarm the man in brutal takedown was mitigated. Because, beside him, he heard a voice. The voice of the dead.

“Of course it comes down to this, Matthew.” Laughed the voice of the arrogant devil. “Kick and punch and jump and hit. It’s all you know, isn’t it. The shadows. The skulking. The violence.”

Matt clenched his fists and shut his eyes, trying to rid the noise that rattled away in his mind, but it wouldn’t leave. It was trapped – sealed inside by a reign of arrogance and power. It was either confront the devil or the death of those he loved, and neither seemed the appropriate answer as he attempted to fight a drug-trade in the docks of Hell’s Kitchen.

Despite the haunting voice that lingered in his mind, Matt pursued his mission. He wound through the symphony of sounds and smells that filled the world around him. He ignored the voice of Kilgrave – the dying words of Stick. Instead, he navigated his way through the maze of containers. His ears catching the sounds of footsteps and conversations and clicks of safety switches from firearms.

“You can’t escape what you are, Matt. You’re like me. You’re worse than me. You’re a devil who denies it. Who walks in death and misery. But if… if you embrace what you are, then things become so much easier.”

Matt shook his head as the voice grew louder. It’s teeming arrogance growing stronger with each rejection of it. He rounded a corner unnoticed by a trio of guards, whose conversation about recent happenings in Harlem and Hell’s Kitchen absorbed all of their attention.

With a series of swift, specific and precise movements, Matt went about disarming the first guard, incapacitating the third, and delivering a perfectly calculated blow to the third. Within seconds, the guards had no awareness of what had hit them, but were thrown to the ground unconscious.

“I’m not like you. I will never be like you.” Matt stated, panting as he pursued his mission. Continuing forward, he jolted around key points of the operation. The weakest, yet the most important. Guards fell, each like limp dominoes, falling one by one. Each in quick succession, making Matt’s job easier by the moment.

Eventually, Matt arrived at the heart of the drug trade. Duffle bags were stashed with smaller clear bags of powders. Men and women with guns orchestrated the packing in rhythmic order, whilst one man stood at the very end. His grin was audible, as he clutched onto a stack of cash, flicking through it and jokingly taking wafts of it.

Matt wandered forward, throwing two of his batons across the yard, perfectly aimed to ricochet straight back towards him.

“Aw shit!” Bellowed the man clutching onto the wad of cash – the same man Matt could hear escape swiftly to cover.

Matt’s ears tuned to the sounds of the guards, his mind catching the sound of four – each armed with a gun, and each now cautious that somebody was attacking them. Matt considered his actions as he hunched behind a metal crate. Deep in his mind he calculated each sweep, each hit, each swing, each slide. Perfected down to the very final strike – even taking into account the hail of gunfire that he was expecting to emerge out of the showdown.

A burst of action glistened as Matt launched himself forward. Utilising the element of surprise, which stuck to his side as his key advantage, a blur of frantically calculated blows and strikes whipped past the guards’ eyes. Precision had primed each attack, as he swung his batons through the air in powerful strikes against the temples of the guards, whilst disarming and ridding of the guns to make the hand-to-hand combat considerably fairer.

Moments later, Matt stood amongst the wreckage. Bags split open, unconscious bodies resting on the floor, and unfired guns scattering the ground.

He marched forward, towards the man who had profited from the trade, dragging him up from behind the cover he had found. His black-cloth mask covered his blind eyes, but created the illusion that he was staring straight back to the man.

The sound of the gushing river bellowed in his ears, as she clutched onto the collar of the man. He could hear the sadistic voice of Kilgrave ringing in his ear. “Kill him. Do it. You’re so close. Every war has casualties – let him be one.” The barking voice was disorientating, but Matt kept calm. Kept focused.

“Where’s Gao?” Matt’s husking voice was fuelled by rage, as his firm grasp was untainted and unmoved.

“Where’s who?” The man replied. “Man, I’m just hear for the green. Turk Barret don’t ask questions – if you’re looking for someone, you were probably better off asking one of these lot.” The man, presumably Turk, had no particular shock by Matt. There was no rising heartbeat or panic, but instead a casual calmness.

“The drugs – who supplies them?”

“I don’t know, some group with a serpent logo. Look, if you gonna beat me up or whatever, get it over with. But best believe, I’m reporting you. Fisk’s anti-vigilante shit gonna hit you harder than any sentence will get me.”

“Fuck!” Beckoned the voice of Kilgrave in an almost overwhelming scream. “He’s right Matt. That bastard Fisk is going to foil us at every turn. The best way to sort this out is kill this, Turk.”

“No.” Matt stated angrily, letting go of Turk. “I’m not that kind of man. I won’t ever be.”

“But you are – you’re all masked up and beating the shit out of people. That’s vigilante bullshit.”

“I wasn’t talking to you.” Matt retorted, his head swivelling around before reaching down for one of the guns. He felt the grip for the trigger, before piling a series of bullets into the air. A cascade of shells hit the ground, erupting slightly as Matt dropped the gun from his hands and darted off into the shadows.

“Bitch, who the fuck you talking to then?”

*

Exhaustion pressed down on Matt, as he sat on the edge of his bed. His hands, which had managed to rid his makeshift suit of blood and grime, now trembled. Ringing in his ears were the creaks of the buildings and horns of the cars outdoors and the buzzing of lamp sat in the corner.

Now the voice of Kilgrave had subdued. It copied the silence that rested amongst Matt, as he reconciled with himself in peace.

He had tried a confessional with Father Lantom, but even in confessing his sins and seeking the guidance of God appeared to fail him. He had tried his therapist, but it appeared futile. Not many options appeared before him as options to supress the feelings of guilt and terror, let alone the haunting voice of the devil himself.

Yet a knock of the door caught Matt’s attention. Even before the knock he was able to distinguish who it was. The smell of perfume and cologne merged together as a reminder of the brief time he had an office. Their quiet voices reverberated through the thin walls, whilst the flowers Karen clasped onto had a beautiful scent even from far away.

Taking a deep breath to steady himself, Matt rose to his feet and crossed the room to open the door. As he did so, the sounds from the corridors grew louder, and the concern in Karen’s voice was almost tangible, as her eyes widened to observe his dishevelled appearance.

Matt welcomed them in, and although Foggy barely spoke a word, Karen crossed towards the small kitchenette and grabbed a glass of water for Matt. “You look terrible,” she said, handing him the glass. “What happened?”

“The docks.” Foggy answered promptly, interjecting before Matt could deliver a lie. Matt’s fingers brushed against Karens for a moment as he took the glass, whilst a burden of guilt weighed on his shoulders as he turned his head to Foggy’s direction. The frustration on Foggy’s words and thoughts faded, as he promptly sat down beside Matt with the same expression of concern that toned Karen’s words. “All this vigilante stuff – you need to stop.”

“Or at least let us help.” Karen insisted, sitting the other side of Matt. “Kilgrave’s dead now. Jessica is back. We can focus on taking down Fisk – putting an end to his operation. As a group.”

Matt shook his head, feeling his jaw tighten and his heart sink. “It’s not that simple, Karen. Fisk is just a piece of a puzzle, there’s something bigger here. Something ancient and weirdly mystic.”

“Ancient and weirdly mystic?” Foggy’s disbelief was coupled with a raise to his eyebrow. “What are you talking about?”

Flashing in Matt’s mind was the night of Kilgrave’s death. He recalled Gao and her discussion of the Black Sky, and the ninjas and Nobu and the war. The damn war that Stick never stopped talking about. His voice grew sombre. “There’s a war between Stick’s people and a group called the hand. It’s being going on for decades – I wouldn’t be surprised if it was centuries, even by the same people. Because Stick said the only way to kill a serpent is by taking off it’s head.”

A glance of worry exchanged between Karen and Foggy, before she remarked, “Matt, this sounds… well, it sounds insane.”

“I know,” Matt sighed with heavy admittance, although he promptly shook his head. “But it’s real and I can’t ignore it.”

Foggy sighed heavily, before reaching into a bag that was strapped around his chest. Opening up the flap, he reached inside and retrieved a small metal sign. Foggy handed it over to Matt, feeling that it had some weight to it as he did so.

Matt glanced puzzled for a moment, running his fingers across letters – an odd sensation after training himself on brail – before figuring out the words he was feeling.

NELSON AND MURDOCK

ATTORNEYS AT LAW

“I- I thought you were going to try and convince us to start back up, Matt.” Foggy’s voice broke a little, as despair seized his heart. “After everything, I was ready to try again. I even had Marci sign up my resignation letter to Hogarth.”

Matt’s guilt crossed his face as he glanced back to Foggy.

He sat at a crossroad. Ringing in his ears, buried deep in his mind were the voices of Stick to fight the war, and Kilgrave’s voice of becoming the devil – while he now could hear the sadness and grief in Foggy’s. He contemplated what to do, the room caught in a frozen silence as he decided which route to now take.

“Foggy – There’s nothing more in this world I would want more than to go back.” His voice was quiet and weak, he considered everything. Over and over, looping in his mind. He took a deep breath and wandered around the room to gather his thoughts. His footsteps were heavy as he paced around his small apartment. The weight of the decision at hand crushed him, feeling his friends’ eyes watching him. Not speaking a word.

The silence of the room was almost suffocating, thick with tension and emotions, all clinging onto Matt’s words.

Finally, Matt turned around. He faced the pair, and his steady and strained voice began to speak. “Foggy, Karen. You have to understand that this war is more than Fisk. It’s a threat to the whole city – and if I don’t stop them, then who will.”

“Matt, you’re one man!” Foggy’s frustration bubbled to the surface as he leapt to his feet. “You can’t take on some ancient mystical war by yourself. You need help – but you also need to live your life. We – me and you – started our firm to make a difference, through law. Through justice. And you’re the only way we can do that.”

“Foggy’s right, Matt. I’ve seen you in a courtroom – your gift can take down Fisk. Take down the puzzle piece by piece if you need.”

Matt turned around, Stick’s final words echoing in his mind. His heart ached, wanting to return. Wanting life to return to normal. His stressed breaths stuttered, “I want to believe we could do that. But every time I close my eyes, I hear Kilgrave’s taunts. I feel Elektra’s blood. I know what’s at stake here, and I can’t turn away from it.”

“Then don’t.” Foggy stated, resting his hand on the law firm’s sign. “But come back to us, Matt. Please.”

***

It had appeared that Foggy clasped onto hope regarding Matt’s decision, as promptly after agreeing, Matt discovered that everything was set up to go. The name reinstated, the office back to their ownership.

It was a stanch difference to the dark and gritty nights he had spent prowling the streets. The violence he was hired by Fisk to enact, the world that had been ruined by Kilgrave. It was modest, spewing with the scent of fresh paint and a sense of hope. The soothing shade of cream was joined with the framed legal diplomas and photographs, whilst large windows let in the beating natural light.

Matt had arrived early that morning, comforted by the familiar wooden creak beneath him, which brought a warm smile to his face. Standing in the doorway, he found comfort in every sound and smell and texture. His old world was welcoming him back, reminding him of the life he had lost in Kilgrave’s wake.

The coffee in his hand mangled its smell with the smell of books and leather and paper. In his office, the study oak desk stood strong, meticulously cleaned and organised with legal documents and brail paper, whilst a nameplate inscribed in text and braille, read Matthew Murdock, Attorney.

As he sat down, and began to enjoy the cup of coffee he’d placed on his desk, his head cocked. His senses picked up on a familiar smell and voice – a woman approached the office and knocked on the door. Matt instantly recognised her from months prior, and he leapt to his feet with cautious curiosity.

Opening the door, he felt the warm and apprehensive smile of Daisy Johnson reflect at him.

“Daisy?” He asked nervously, standing aside to welcome her in. Her voice was timid and quiet, carrying news she didn’t want to reveal, despite it’s importance. “You need a lawyer?”

“Not quite.” She sighed as she turned towards him. “Nice place.” She stalled, glancing around and wandering towards the large windows, which overlooked the city.

“Renovated recently – Foggy and I– we wanted to go back to normal.” That statement was enough to make Daisy’s heart drop, feeling the weight of guilt burden it. The guilt she felt was almost audible, as it hung in the air, lingering around Matt. “I get the feeling there’s something you need to tell me.”

Daisy sighed, following Matt into his office. “I know I said to call us if you need our help – but we need your help.”

Matt shook his head as he swivelled his head around to her. A rejection cross his face. “I can’t leave to help your fight. There’s a war here, in New York.”

Daisy nodded her head and sat in the seat across from Matt. “Do you know a woman called Jessica? Jessica Jones?” She asked, bringing Matt’s dismissive frustration to a halt as she slumped down in his own seat. He leant forward, hesitantly confirming that he did. “A few days ago, she contacted us about Kilgrave. We suspect that Kilgrave had something planned before he died – working with HYDRA.”

Matt laughed, clearly in an attempt to rid the nerves and the fear the very name provoked. “I am done with Kilgrave.”

“Yes – maybe – but then… do you remember the report about the man started melting metal?”

“Yeah, Foggy and I theorised how exactly we’d cover the case.”

“He’s an Inhuman, like me. And we were attacked by this… creature. And our team is small at the moment. One of our best agents left and another is trapped inside a monolith. And while this guy, Joey, is undergoing psyche tests, our team is still limited in the special-abilities unit.”

“Daisy, I told you before, I’m not an Inhuman.”

“Matt, you have better coordination than most athletes. Your heightened senses help you, right? They can help us. And this war that you’re fighting in New York? If you help us, we can help you. Because the last thing you want is to be fighting this war alone.”

Matt shook his head, before Daisy stood up out of her chair and wandered across the room. “Daisy, I can’t join your fight. I need to stay here.”

“This here might not last if we can’t get the help we need. If Kilgrave is involved, then we need you more than anybody.”

“But Kilgrave died! Right in front of me. He told me to kill him.”

Daisy paused, staring at Matt as he raised his voice. Rage and frustration and terror lacing the words he spouted. Daisy’s voice was calm. “But you didn’t. Fisk did. You not only showed your power, but your determination for good. That’s why you set this place up. You were always taking about right and wrong – so show me, show yourself… how much you believe in that. I need you Matt.”

“I don’t know if I can fight another battle.” Matt admitted, turning back to Daisy, who had placed her hand on his shoulder. “The war with the Hand isn’t even my own. Your war isn’t mine.”

Daisy’s voice was quiet and calm, as she knelt down beside him. “You can change things though. You can help us all. When you’re done, a decision you can make on your own terms, you can come back here.”

*

The scent of freshly bakes good wafted through the office, as Foggy and Karen wandered through. Clasped in Foggy’s hands were a box of pastries, warm and awe-inducing. They shared a joke and a laugh, comforted by the cream walls and the creaking floor. Their eyes glanced into the office, lit gently by the sunlight which cascaded through the sunlight.

“I’m just saying, if I had a superpower, metal melting would be rubbish.”

“I’m sure he didn’t choose it though.” Karen remarked, shutting the door behind them as she wandered inside. Held in her arms were a batch of files and papers, and for a moment, neither noticed the door that sat ajar.

Foggy at first was too focused on picking out the best-looking pastry, having had the though ingrained in his mind from the moment he’d got them from the bakery. Yet Karen’s eye picked up on the door being ajar. Nobody was inside Matt’s office, nor anywhere else it seemed.

Karen frowned as she wandered into Matt’s office, scanning the room. She set down the files on the table, before picking up the half-drunk cup of coffee.

“Cold…” She commented quietly and softly, lined with worry as she flicked her eyes up to Foggy. “He must have been gone for a while.”

“Probably gone to clear his head. Speak to his priest? I don’t know – he does that sometimes.” Foggy’s brows resisted furrowing as he continued devouring the pastry, feeling the flakes break away in his mouth and the delicious tasted practically melted in his mouth. “Now baking – baking’s a superpower.” He commented, completely unphased by the concern that tinged Karen’s voice.

“He wouldn’t just leave, Foggy. Not a note… not a sign of struggle. Something must have happened. If he’s worried about this war and just disappears, we can’t just shrug our shoulders and move on.” Karen picked up his nameplate, running over the brass inscription of his name, before releasing a heavy sigh.

“Matt knows what today means to us – I’m sure everything’s fine.”

“He’s not well! We can’t just assume he’s fine. That’s how we almost lost him last time.”

Foggy looked back into her eyes and let out a deep sigh. He dropped and slumped back into his own office desk, contemplating what they could do to even seek out Matt – but it raised the question if it was worth it.

Had Matt gone once again? Was it fate for Matt to leave over and over? Had Kilgrave trapped him in that vicious cycle?

***

The story of this universe has only just begun it’s course of change. But the story of how the world changed when Kilgrave saved Matt Murdock has reached it’s end. You can see how everything hinges on a single moment. A single action. A single person.

Time, space and reality burns with the lives lived inside it, each one with the power to alter another. And as I watch these events, I grow wary. I wonder what happens when these timelines diverge to a point that the powerful grow more powerful. What happens when Kilgrave escapes his death, or the Hand are not stopped?

But for now, I can only observe. For I am the Watcher, and now I ponder the next question in this multiverse… the next question for this universe.

What if… The Defenders Never United?

Chapter Text

Time.

Space.

Reality.

It’s more than a linear path. It’s a prism of endless possibilities, where a single choice can branch out into infinite realities, creating alternate worlds from the ones you know.

I am the Watcher. I am your guide through these vast new realities. Follow me and ponder the question…. “What If?”

In the year of 2016, the planet Earth saw many heroes rise and fight. It saw the Defenders fight against the Hand, the Agents of SHIELD fight the Hive and the Avengers fight themselves. It was the year Doctor Strange faced a car crash, Natasha Romanoff fought the Red Room, the year Kilmonger attempted to seize power.

But in this universe, that year of 2016 is far different.

The ripple of time first started when Kilgrave – a man infected with a virus that could manipulate the minds of others – saved a bleeding and bruised Matthew Murdock. As time passed, the timeline diverged far more and more. Matt Murdock was exposed, Wilson Fisk grew to power, and Jessica Jones was kidnapped for nine months by Kilgrave, who had aligned himself with the Hand.

The fates of friends and foes continued to change too. The Punisher never came to be, thanks to the help of Karen Page and Luke Cage, both of whom never reached the places they did in your timeline. Wilson Fisk and Cornell Stokes formed an alliance, and Luke Cage was fortunate enough to return to Harlem with Pop still alive. Elektra and Stick both died the day Kilgrave was killed – killed by the Hand.

But the true beginning of the divergence in this story began when Jessica Jones investigated the mystery of her child, taken during the blur of nine months. She very quickly found that Kilgrave had formed an alliance with the organisation known as HYDRA, and was asked by the remnants of SHIELD to help track down Grant Ward.

Meanwhile, the prior relationship between Matthew Murdock and Daisy Johnson drew him out of his re-establishing life – he too recruited help SHIELD.

With the promise of Kilgrave’s legacy being hunted down, and Luke Cage taking longer to ward off the power of Cottonmouth, the likeliness of the ‘Defenders’ ever forming appears unlikely…

***

“Welcome back to TrishTalk. Before the break, I was discussing the new cases of enhanced-ability people across the world – and how our government is responding to it. Referring to it as an ‘alien outbreak’, the president himself has established a taskforce – the ATCU. But before I explain my thoughts, why not answer some calls?” The voice of Trish Walker resonated through the walls, at Matt Murdock tried to sit in silence, forming an understanding of the base he’d been escorted to.

“Long-time listener here, Trish. First, I think it’s fantastic that you’re back on the air. But all of this talk about ‘outbreaks’ makes me think of our response to illnesses in the past. I was around during the AIDs crisis back in the 80s and 90s. I remember how we silenced everything… We had drug companies and governments lie to us about the situation. Underplay and overplay it. Now, we have people in crisis over these… powers. And it makes me worried – what if the ATCU are a smokescreen. What if they have another agenda? Can we seriously trust our government?” The voice of a middle-aged man spoke a mile-per-minute, with speed and desperation and fear toning the words he uttered. It was almost audible the surprise Trish had, when he had stopped with a question posed towards her.

“Honestly, I don’t think we can ever trust the government. But I think there are people out there, dealing with this crisis. Perhaps not the ATCU – but people who really do care.” The hope that laced Trish’s voice was almost audible besides the words she uttered. Anybody other her and her sister wouldn’t have known who she was directly talking about – but her mind was taken to SHIELD and their operations.

As he drew his attention away from the talk show that permeated through the walls, Matt paused. He could hear so many voices and noises rumbling through the brick walls. Footsteps, clattering in the laboratory, a man talking to himself about a monolith. SHIELD was loud and busy, packed constantly with people doing stuff. Secrets passed in hushed whispers, which were almost loud to him. He could hear the rattling of guns and buzzing of earpieces.

He missed New York.

Only the creaking sound of the door dragged Matt’s overwhelmed and confused senses out from the growing sense of panic that settled in his heart. An expensive cologne followed a large built man, whose voice was formal and careful. He could hear the man’s heart beating with power like he’d never heard before. Whilst the man clenched and unclenched his fist, almost in anticipation for something.

“Mr Murdock.” The man smiled towards Matt, even despite Matt’s visual impairment. He thought it best to gesture the same way, hoping it’d be caught in his voice in some way. “I’m Dr Garner. I examine our patients here at SHIELD – check you’re ready for the field.”

Matt laughed, “I appreciate it, doctor, but I don’t really need examining.”

Dr Garner sniffed the air, before staring straight towards Matt – once again, a gesture he hoped could be caught in his voice. “You’ve not been able to see for the most part of your life, correct?” Matt confirmed the fact quietly and cautiously. “You were blinded by chemicals that blinded you.”

“Those same chemicals heightened my senses.”

“What is the range on those senses?”

“Almost everything within the block. I could sit on a rooftop and hear voices from streets away. But that’s difficult – painful almost.”

Dr Garner took a heavy breath as he pulled forward a notepad and began to write down inside it. Matt listened carefully, wondering if he could make sense of the letters he was writing by listening to the patterns – but he gave up halfway through.

“How have you used your powers since you acquired them?”

“I’ve fought.” Matt admitted, half-ashamed, half-proud. “Stopped gun runners, drug dealers, traffickers.” Dr Garner nodded his head, the shifting of his clothes as his collar crumpled hitting Matt’s ears. “I’ve only ever wanted to use my powers for good.”

“Except when you made headline news for attacking Wilson Fisk.” Garner’s voice was cold and sneering. It was a memory tainted purely by Kilgrave, the voice, the smell, the sound – the feeling of all lack of control. Matt clenched his eyes shut and ignored the voice of Kilgrave that attempted to claw out, trying to pursue rage against Dr Garner.

“I didn’t attack Fisk. Kilgrave attacked Fisk. I confronted him, wanted him to admit what he was doing and hand himself in to the police.” Matt’s voice was blunt and agitated. Offence lined his words as he spouted them back towards Dr Garner.

“And your abilities didn’t tempt you otherwise?”

Matt frowned and tilted his head. “I have heightened sense. I can detect heartbeats, smell stronger smells, taste better – none of that is going to help me actually hurt somebody. It’s a way to get to a point where I can help, it helps my fighting for coordination, but so does my years of training.” Matt’s agitation continued, as he leant forward. “And I’m not an Inhuman – or whatever Daisy is. I’m a man who was injured and trained as a boy by an asshole who died!”

Matt’s shouting voice had brought the room to a silence. Dr Garner stared forward, intrigued. There was rage resonating in Matt, something Matt had even noticed. Rage devoid of Kilgrave. Rage that was already there. Rage resting in his heart.

Dr Garner’s scribbling of notes hit Matt’s ears once again and Matt took a deep and heavy breath, knowing the writing was an indication of quiet.

“Who was this ‘asshole’, as you put it, that died?” Dr Garner pressed.

Matt’s mind was thrown back to the day Stick died. The image replayed in his mind – as Gao attacked and fled into the darkness of the tunnel. His voice was low as he replied, “Stick. He was like a father to me for a little while, before abandoning me. He always talked about a war, a war I didn’t believe until I saw it take him and Elektra.” Matt glanced down, he backed away from his hostile leaning forward and his head dropped down. “But Stick told me not to fight this war alone. And SHIELD might just be the answer to that.”

Dr Garner smiled as he glanced forward. “That’s good to hear, Matt. SHIELD is about fighting together – using our strengths for a common goal.” He clasped his notebook close and sat up from his seat. “I’m sure the people here can help exert that anger you have into something productive. Everybody here is a little hurt by something.”

Matt listened as the man wandered out of the room after a short salutation. The flash of noise that followed as he did took him by surprise, but Matt promptly filtered it out. His ears listened to the world once again, before catching onto the radio of TrishTalk once again.

“Next up for discussion is Harlem – now there’s been a lot of discussion about the disappearance of a young man called Chico Diaz. Which is important because there’s an increase in successful arrests for crimes, but they each report a man questioning where Chico actually is.  The question there is, does Harlem need a new hero?”

***

Daisy Johnson’s eyes scattered across an array of screens. Their holographic nature, with blue and red, caught her in some awe. Yet she was also busy trying to find more cases of Inhumans… or perhaps even where Lincoln had gone. Her fidgeting fingers mingled together, whilst her green jacket sleeves were strapped around her elbows.

The door behind her opened, and even she could tell who it was by the sound of the slow entering footsteps. She frowned, agitated, sensing the bad news from even before the first voice was uttered. “Let me guess, Joey Guiterrez is unfit for action. Physically, psychologically and emotionally.”

“Probably, but I wouldn’t know.” Matt answered, wandering into the room with his cane just in case he needed it. Daisy swivelled her head around and her eyes met with Matt, who sauntered in with perfect precision.

“Sorry – I thought you were…” Her voice trailed off as she felt some sense of frustration with herself.

“Dr Garner?” He asked, getting a quiet confirmation from Daisy, which was promptly followed by a nodding of her head. “He’s tough… and I’m not even Inhuman.”

“He is, but he knows his stuff. There aren’t many doctors who don’t panic when they learn about us – let alone actually study up on us.” Daisy’s voice was defeated, with some sense of devastation toning her words. “I just wish we were making better progress. We’re constantly running out of time, but we never get where we need to be. I mean, Fitz and Coulson and Bobbi are out looking for Jemma. Hunter’s left with Jessica to hunt down Ward… and we’re just waiting. Waiting for Inhumans to make an appearance.”

“But that’s just life - Never enough time…” Matt remarked, a flicker of despair in his voice as it quietened and softened. In a search for a brief distraction, his ears filtered though the voices and the noises that clattered around the base. “You also work in a secret organisation with way too much luggage. Like, SHIELD fell after it dropped helecarriers on the city. But then SHIELD goes back to the 1940s? And SHIELD continues now?” Matt scoffed. “I’m a lawyer by day and vigilante by night, and even I think there’s too much going on here.”

Daisy laughed slightly, her mind drawn away from the flickering screens, before she turned to Matt. “Do you think you would’ve been the man you are without your powers?” She wondered, glancing towards him with a quieter voice.

“I’ve never liked to consider ‘what if’s.” Matt commented quietly. “Always makes me wonder what my life would’ve been like if I’d never met Kilgrave.”

“Okay, fair…” Daisy replied, taken aback by Matt’s weighted response. “But imagine you didn’t have these powers. Would you be the same Matt Murdock?”

“Depends. My powers came with being blind – and being blind meant that I was limited in certain ways, but I pursued justice because of my dad.” His mind was cast back to the night his father was killed – the victory he’d had was short-lived. Matt recalled the sirens and the damp of the alley. “But then that’s a different ‘what if’. That’s ‘what if’ my dad lost against Carl Creel.” Matt’s voice was quiet and modest, reflecting back on the various different lives he could’ve led if certain parts of his story were changed.

“Carl Creel?” Daisy’s mind was abruptly drawn towards the name, remembering vividly the man that had caused chaos during their struggles earlier that year with the Afterlife. Daisy didn’t even wait for Matt’s clarification, as she leapt across and searched through their data on Creel. “I’d completely forgot about Creel…” Daisy wondered quietly.

“You- You know Carl Creel? The Crusher?” Matt’s voice was hesitant in speaking, quietly and shy. A sense of grief he’d not felt in years erupted as he wandered towards her, standing at her side. All he could hear was the flickering and buzzing of screens, alongside Daisy’s clicking of the keyboard before her.

“Creel was HYDRA. He went through an experiment that made him the ‘Absorbing Man’, and then he touched an Obelisk and survived. But only Inhumans could survive that.” Matt nodded his head, the words uttered by Daisy in a frantic reel had lost him, after all, his attention stopped after hearing Creel was HYDRA.

He replayed that fact over and over in his mind. He recontextualised it – considered what it meant. The man that his father died after winning a boxing match over… He worked for HYDRA. The enemies of the world, whose roots mangled themselves in the Nazis.

There was a pang of rage that hit his heart, a grief malformed into anger.

Daisy turned her head and watched as Matt’s seething anger resonated in his face. His gritted teeth and panting breath. “Matt – I’m… I’m sorry, I didn’t think.” Matt shook his head and told Daisy he needed a moment to think. Without uttering another word he stormed from the room and through the bustling corridors of SHIELD.

In his frustration, he ignored Dr Garner’s words as he passed, storming straight into the cold and depressing bedroom, before dropping himself down on the bed.

In a persistent replaying in his mind, he heard Daisy’s words. Creel was HYDRA.

Some part of him had always wished something bad happened to Creel. He held some blame towards Creel – the legacy and power he’d built up made him appear invincible. Although Matt knew it wasn’t the work of Creel himself, he couldn’t shake that feeling that the fault rested with Creel in some manner too. And although Matt found comfort in never hearing the name of Carl ‘Crusher’ Creel chanted in boxing history, that solace was now ripped away from him.

Creel was HYDRA.

***

Matt had been asked to join Daisy on a mission to England. He had sat on a Quinjet, uncomfortably jumbling around it’s metallic frame, strapped in the seats. Across him was another agent of SHIELD, although he’d mind had been so caught up in the reveal he’d earlier faced, he’d not yet learnt the name of the man – that, or he’d missed it completely.

It was during the flight, in the midst of a discussion between Daisy and the man, that Matt learned his name to be Mack. He’d heard them talk about Inhumans, and Garner’s psychoanalysis of the team. He could tell from Mack’s voice he was a sensible man, with a deep voice that was burrowed from a big-built frame.

Mack and Daisy used the flight time to explain the situation to Matt. About how they had caged a monolith in the base, but it liquified and consumed an agent months prior. They explained Fitz’ obsession, and how they outsourced help from an Asgardian assistant.

Matt figured the more he let the pair talk and explain, the crazier the story would develop – which was an expectation met when he learnt the Asgardian had connected a the Hebrew word of ‘Maveth’ to a castle he’d visited hundreds of years prior – and how they had then found a room dedicated specifically for the monolith, which they were shipping across.

By the time they arrived in the castle, Matt could hear the creaking of the woods outside and the rustling of leaves which danced along the whistling wind which passed through the ancient trees. Looming high and above the forest was the castle. At the centre was a tower, which the Quinjet hovered above, with the creaking of chains in the wind indicating the lowering of the monolith.

The small trio disembarked from the jet and wandered through the castle. Whilst Mack and Daisy flashed their torches around, Matt navigated with almost perfect precision. His ears picked up on the damp stone and echoes of their footsteps, as well as the faint hum of technology that resonated around the rest of the team in the hidden compartment of the castle.

Meanwhile, Mack admired the tattered tapestries, whilst wincing at the sight of draping cobwebs. They swayed slightly in the disturbed wind, looking like ghostly apparitions in the corner of his eyes.

Eventually, they found their way to the tower, and they found a room which glistened with decadent make-shift technology. To the eye, it looked steampunk-y, brass and flashy lights, formed of a minimal understanding of the technology, yet a fascinating different perspective of the science they knew.

Daisy and Mack wandered in casually, talking to other agents about the advice of Dr Garner. Matt’s ears tuned to the work of two other men, who fiddled with the technology to ensure it could work.

“You must be Matt.” The perky and chipper voice of a man approached Matt, his smile tangibly in the air as he patted Matt on the shoulder. “Phil Coulson. Director of SHIELD. Welcome to the team – Daisy’s told us a lot about you.”

“There’s not much to tell.” Matt chuckled humbly, smiling awkwardly to Coulson.

“You’re a hell of a fighter,” Stated a woman, whose speaking indicated she had some considerable height to her. Matt smiled and tried to throw the compliment away, but he was promptly met with a rejection of that. “We saw you fighting at the docks. You probably fight better than most people SHIELD hire. I’m Bobbi, by the way.” Matt shot his hand out towards her, feeling his soft hand shake his with a sense of pride and admiration.

“I assume you’re Fitz.” Matt stated, swivelling around perfectly, directing himself in his direction. Hunched over a small control panel, Fitz swivelled his head around and found himself reflected in Matt’s black glasses. Fitz stammered slightly, before Matt wandered across the room, avoiding the pit that the monolith had been lowered into.

“Yes – Sorry, busy at the moment.” Fitz remarked, his attention diverting everywhere else besides his reflection. He shook Matt’s hand before swiftly spinning around. His voice was shaky and apprehensive, fidgeting slightly as he called out. “Mack? Mack, push that lever. No, the one- the one with the stone- the one beside it, push it.” His tetchy and flippant voice expressed the panic and stress in his voice.

There was an exchange of glances in the room, although the sound of clinking chains and whirring gears echoed throughout the walls of the tower. Fitz stood by a panel and clicked away a series of levers, before pulling a final one. The ancient machinery geared into action, groaning with rust-covered movement. Tubes rattled and dials flickered, whilst the sound of a bubbling liquid sounded through the walls.

A heavy trembling caught the room in a tremor, although Matt’s ears promptly picked up on a shrieking pitch which blast through the tower. It burned deeply in his mind and he was quick to clasp his hands to his ears, feeling the rattling ring through to his brain.

He could hear Bobbi and Mack shouting over the trembling, whilst Fitz approached the pit. As he called out for more light, the noise grew worse and more piercing – an experience felt by Daisy too, who winced in pain as the shrieking grew louder and louder.

Although, between the piercing beckoning sound of the room and technology, and the frantic demands of light by Fitz, Matt could hear wind. A harsh wind, scattering sand in a frequent storm. Another world on the other end of the portal, although those sounds were quickly drowned out as the technology began to shatter and tremble. The bubbling liquid began to drastically blow from the calmer pool it was before, whilst gears halted entirely and the lights flickered with intensity.

Mack’s voice shouted across to Bobbi, who shouted back across. Fitz set of a flare gun into the portal for a case of light, and Matt could hear it explode as he did so.

Matt stumbled towards a wall, screaming as the bellowing noise rattled around in his mind. The enduring pain worsened, and between them it brought them to a trembling quiver. Even once it finished, their consciousness slipped away and they collapsed to the floor. The pulsating sound still drilling into his mind, seeding and rooting and hurting.

*

As Matt came to, he could hear Daisy’s voice as she hovered over him. He could smell a dribble of blood dropping from her nose, whilst her heartbeat frantically beat as she calmed herself down. Beside him too was Coulson, who looked intensely between Matt and Daisy.

“Matt – you feeling any better?” Daisy asked, clasping onto his hand with some concern. Matt coughed, splattering blood from his nose too, gently wiped away by Daisy.

“That noise was horrible… It was like… like it was screaming around the room.”

“You heard it too?” Daisy asked, swivelling her head eagerly to Bobbi and Coulson, neither of whom had heard it. “I suppose you would – heightened senses and all.”

“Probably not the best idea bringing you in here… If it does this to you, we don’t want physical trauma as a result of this.” Coulson sensibly commented, his eyes flicking between Daisy and Matt. An argument held in their, ready to begin, but it was promptly disturbed. A clanking of metal rang through the room as Fitz let go of a tub that he and Mack were holding.

“Wait, the noise – was the noise resonating in the room?” Fitz asked, jolting towards Matt, an eagerness in his face.

Matt nodded, “Like it was bouncing off the walls.” There was an energy to Fitz, glistening and excited. Burning in his mind with a hint of desperation, attracting glances from everybody in the room as he began to rattle of with words and facts that barely anybody followed.

“Quantum harmonic oscillation theory. The room – the professor said the room was strange for the time period. Because the room wasn’t designed to be aesthetic, it’s practical. The resonating sound creates a- a quantized field wi- within the stone.” Fitz glanced around and noticed the baffled expressions, only understood by the Asgardian professor who busied himself with notes. “The room- the room is like a speaker, and the machine amplifies a sub-sonic frequency to- to resonate inside the Monolith…”

“Fitz, if you’re explain this stuff, at least simplify it for us who didn’t specialise in science at the academy.”

“He’s saying a frequency opens up the stone into liquid form.” Matt muttered, recovering slightly as his ears began to finetune in the room. Coulson glanced down, feeling awkward and embarrassed for not catching onto that explanation.

“But without the machine, how do we make that sound?” Bobbi asked, stepping forward from a collection of levers she was trying to tinker with.

Mack glanced up, “Reckon you found a way to fix the machine?”

“No – no! We don’t need the machine. The machine was a way they did it back in the 1800s. Look at it – it’s rubbish.” Fitz spun around on the spot, his hand gestured outwards, catching the wind as he did so. His eyes eventually landed on Daisy as he stopped, and she felt a responsibility dropped upon her too.

“I could replicate the frequency. It’s drilled into my head now.”

“Mine too.” Matt smirked, clambering to his feet. “But there’s a sandstorm on the other side – I could hear it. So ,if you plan on going there, you might need some goggles. Or a man whose senses don’t rely on vision.”

“We’re not sending anybody through.” Coulson stated fiercely. “We’ll send the drone through.” His head jolted around, fixing on everybody until he got their confirmation, including Fitz, who he glanced to last. His eyebrow raised in expectation for a response, feeling anxious for a moment as a flicker in his eyes suggested otherwise.

“Analyse what we can see, plan our next move.” Fitz shyly answered in response to Coulson’s piercing glare.

Coulson turned back around to Matt, a stern seriousness in his voice. “Matt – I appreciate you want to help and be a hero, but you have to understand we have procedures. We observe and consider the dangers.”

*

Once the technology had been augmented for Daisy to tremble the room with a piercing shriek, the group of agents readied themselves. Coulson had given his pep talk and the drone had been prepared, leaving only time to take its course.

As a force of energy projected from Daisy’s fingertips, the room was hit by a tremor. The ground beneath them shook and the shriek resonated through the room, bouncing off the walls, and ultimately proving Fitz’ application of quantum harmonic oscillation theory correct. Dust trickled from the ancient stone and the team each let out panicked grunts as they felt the shaking. Electricals flashed and banged and sparked as she finetuned the noise.

Moments later she focused the quaking shriek towards the monolith itself, and the room began to lose the violence in the tremor.

Matt’s ears adjusted to the sound, now hearing a clanging of metal as Fitz unhooked the drone and threw it around his waist. He strapped goggles to his head and took the liquified monolith as a golden opportunity to launch himself inside.

Ignoring Coulson’s previous statement, Matt clung to the rope. He realised the trembling and horrific noise would be too much for him to bear, and knew he could help find the woman that Fitz was willing to sacrifice himself to find.

Matt could hear the voices, the fear and anger as they both plummeted into the gooping pool, but his attention was elsewhere.

There was a tight grip to the floor as they landed through the portal, which whirred and sparked on their side. It’s noise was subdued by the sandstorm that engulfed the area.

“Matt – what- what are you doing?”

“That way!” Matt shouted, point to their left. There was a large dune to be climbed, and Matt struggled through the sandstorm to guide Fitz. “The quicker we find your friend, the quicker we can get back.” He shouted back, sand collecting itself in his mouth, lining his gums like horrible flecks of plaque.

The pair struggled through the sandstorm, their feet burying themselves in heaps of sand as they pushed forward and upward.

“Wait – can you hear her?”

“Will!” A woman’s voice screamed. “Fitz!”

“Two heartbeats – one is closer, the other is further down.”

Fitz responded by screaming the woman’s name. The name ‘Jemma’ eventually hit the point where it sounded to be a weird word, repeated over and over and over. It became the only word that left Fitz’s sand covered mouth – but he held out hope. With each shout, his desperation grew louder and his voice grew more strained.

Shouting back towards Fitz, Matt led him down the dune. Each step they took sunk into the sand, and battled against the storm to rise back out into the shifting sand. After a while, they reached a small outcropping of rocks, covering a brief pause from the relentless storm. But even in their respite, it attempted to catch them, truly not letting for any survivors.

“Fitz!” Not far from where they stood, a woman’s voice begged and pled in desperation, clambering onto the rock outcrop, and falling into Fitz’ arms. “Fitz?” She rejoiced for a moment, although her happiness and joy quickly was lost. “We need to go back – there’s someone else!”

As the howling of the wind grew louder, Matt stood up. His ears lost the heartbeat after a series of gunshots bellowed through the air. “Not… not anymore.”

“Jemma, we have to get back! Daisy’s holding open the portal open and we don’t hav-” Fitz felt a tight grip on the rope, as Mack tugged on it with sheer power. “Matt, hold onto the rope!” Matt groaned, knowing the rope burn was bound to be horrible – yet he did so anyway.

Dragged along the barren sandy wasteland, Matt tried to ignore the sheer pain that coursed through his body. His hands and backside burnt by the friction, but clinging onto the knowledge they’d be home safely soon enough.

Chapter Text

Where we want to be and where we end up never seem to match up. Life has a way like that – being a bastard that never meets your expectations. I expected now to be calm, happy, working for myself by myself… and until recently, that was relatively the case.

Now I’m chasing down mysteries with secret spies, and all I can think is how stupid all this shit really is. That life would’ve been easier if things had been different. But they weren’t, and now I have to dredge through the shit being thrust upon me, in hopes I find the answers I need.

***

Jessica watched carefully from across the bar. A bourbon sat in the cold palm of her hand, resting in the lukewarm heat of the bar. Men hovered around, swigging down beers as their eyes fixed on a TV which hung high up above the bar. The oak wood plank design set a calming tone to the bar, although a swirl of chaos was emerging from the centre of it.

Unbeknownst to most of the patrons in the bar, there were three agents of SHIELD set on a mission to hunt down a man. Jessica was one of those, newly recruited, stoic in her teamwork approach. She’d been assigned to seek out Grant Ward on the orders of Coulson, assigned with Hunter – a British man whose obsession with jokes and his ex-wife had grated Jessica slightly.

It was to her surprise that the revenge-fuelled Hutner disobeyed the assigned mission at first, as they instead visited a former agent. Jessica sat quietly, listening to the conversations in the boiling sun, which slowly began to melt away the paleness of her skin.

That discussion led her here. A cargo of gun shipments readied to be transferred to a link to HYDRA, and two trained agents trying to convince a man with links to HYDRA to get them in. A man called Spud.

Technically, she sat and watched as Hunter, dressed in a tracksuit and short horribly styled hair, drank as many beers as Spud. Each emptied glass bringing him down to a drunken mess, making remarks that clearly annoyed and upset Spud. Yet May, the agent they’d picked up along the way, was able to wrangle the situation to help them. Her words cast an invisible light over Hunter’s drunken mess, and instead raised an appealing suggestion to Spud.

Eventually, the mission was successful, and Hunter and May wandered out, shooting Jessica a final glance for his attention. However, as their eyes met hers, she shook her head. She decided to wait behind. As Jessica had watched from the bar, she had seen the predatorial rage in Spud’s eyes. The consuming rage that ate away at him. The glistening look of tactical betrayal.

Although she was surprised that neither agents noticed, she supposed they were both busy. Hunter’s sense had left the building alongside the dollars he’d put behind the bar, whilst May was juggling a drunkard and a serious negotiation. Neither were in the right mind to notice the flickering eyes of a traitor.

Jessica approached the bar beside Spud, paying him no attention at first as she pretended to struggle to catch the bartender. She quietened her voice, made her sound a little more desperate and in need, all in the hopes that the man beside her would act as a hero to save the day.

“Oi!” He shouted, his voice beckoning from across the bar. The bartender glanced up, his eyes taken aback by the sudden raised voice, sheepishly hurrying over when Spud indicated towards the man. “Lady wants a drink.” Jessica glanced around, thanked the man, before ordering a beer. Spud raised his eyebrow, impressed. “Small frame like that, you’ll be out like a light.”

“They always say that, but I never am.” She swivelled around with a glint of challenge in her eyes. Spud smirked, allured by her gleaming confidence as he called over for another beer himself. They did very little conversation work between the swigging of the beers. Jessica mentioned New York, which brought up the compulsory conversation about ‘The Incident’ – but anybody listening knew what it was. Filler.

Filling the state between sobriety and being bed bound. The lingering state that passed on by slowly, wanting to be ridden of to get elsewhere quicker.

By the time Spud was escorting Jessica home, still caught in the sunlight of the broad day, he was practically wiped. He clung onto a small sense of sense and cognitive thinking, but the majority of his actions were delayed and nonsensical.

On the other hand, Jessica had barely drunk. It was surprisingly easy to fool Spud, and now she stood at the door of his house, his trembling fingers struggling to push in the key and finally open the door. Whilst that wasn’t a euphemism, Jessica glanced down at the depressing indication of foreshadowing.

As Spud clambered to the bathroom, Jessica glanced around. The man’s apartment was cluttered yet barren. There was nothing of substance besides some pre-existing furniture – nothing stood out to Jessica to indicate his ties to HYDRA.

Until his phone rang. It was loud and annoying, by Spud’s mindless state meant he didn’t even hear the incessant ringing until a whole minute later. Within those 60 seconds, Jessica had ripped the phone from his coat pocket and saw the number it was ringing from. With 30 seconds left she memorised the number, recounting it over and over and over. She ripped a pizza order recipet from the floor and wrote it down, slipping it into her pocket as she watched the man stumble back.

“Sorry – probably a work call.” There was a sense of dishonesty in the man’s voice, since it wasn’t a probability – it was a certainty. Spud only had the phone on him for his connections to HYDRA. His move to the US from the UK meant he had very few connections here – very little left of a life besides the crime he dabbled in.

As Spud held it towards his ear, he threw an apologetic glance towards Jessica and wandered into the kitchen. He shut the door behind him, but the depth of his voice still managed to permeate through the walls and carry each and every word uttered by the man. She had some confirmation that Hunter’s plan had worked, but there was a snag in her plan as he argued about coming back in. He demanded he was allowed his day off, but that outrage barely lasted.

Angrily emerging from the kitchen, Spud frowned. “Bloody work needs me back.”

Jessica grinned, “I’ve got nowhere to be.” She fluttered her eyelashes for a moment, catching his drunken eyes. “Plus, you’re in no state to drive.”

“Neith- neither are you.”

“I can drive.” Jessica stated, knowing full well all the alcohol she had drunk was a small glass of bourbon swirling around her stomach. “Just tell me where I’m going?”

“It’s not a- a formal workplace. It ain’t proper.” Shrugging her shoulders, Jessica continued her temptation. She approached the man with some more of a flirtatious flutter in her eyes. Spud swore under his breath, finally convinced as he stumbled out into the hallway.

“What kind of work is it?” Jessica wondered, opening his car door for him. Setting him down, as he flopped around like a tired child resting in a car.

“Nothing interesting. Not anymore.” He frowned in irritation. “Back home we had the works, until this new boss took over. Had us hand over our operations. Then, I had to come here, work my way back to even get back in the fucking crew.” The engine spattered as he swore, and Jessica to drive the directions he had given her.

“So, it’s gang stuff?” Jessica asked, cautious not to act like she knew more than he did. Spud laughed and shook his head, glancing to Jessica with a devilish glee.

“Not quite sweetheart…” His eyes observed her face once again, catching the prettiness of the jet black of her eyes, and the leather of her jacket. “You… you ever heard of HYDRA?” Jessica lied, shaking her head as she flicked her eyes between Spud and the road. “Well, I work for them – well, used to. Now I have to work my way back up… did I mention that?”

“Yes.” Jessica replied bluntly, not bouncing her eyes back to Spud. “What does HYDRA even do?”

“Top secret shit.” Spud’s grin was loud, as it projected through voice and confidence and arrogance. “Most of it is shit I don’t even know, but back before I moved here, I was put on communications with this one guy – super fucked up. Had mind control abilities – literally saw him make a guy eat his own nuts once. But he had a kid – and, I mean, what kind of dosed up bird gets with a mind fucker like that. Beyond me.”

Jessica felt her grip around the steering wheel tighten slightly, as a seething rage rooted itself from the trauma of months that had blurred. “What happened to the kid?” Jessica asked, her voice casually masking the burning desire as she felt as though she was moments away from the answers she needed.

Spud let out a taunting laugh, bellowing as he turned to her. “Fuck knows. Kid was transported all ‘round. Born in London but I think is here in America.” The man groaned slightly, as his stomach gurgled in discomfort. He reared his head back and Jessica glanced over with an ounce of nervousness in her face. “Anyway – all that shit’s behind me, now I have to fight my way back in because this boss is a bastard.”

The car came to a screeching halt, as Jessica pulled up outside a dingy warehouse. It was old and metallic, sitting behind a rustic fence, and caving slightly in the roof. The door was manually opened from the inside, whilst the glass windows were shattered in their frames.

Jessica jumped out from the car and threw Spud the keys once he’d finished his projectile vomiting into a nearby bush. It had taken Spud two minutes to find the keys, by which point Jessica had walked away. She hadn’t found any answers, and she was left with grating misery. Hs voice called out to her, before he stumbled into the warehouse, slowly sobering himself as the situation needed him to.

*

“Hunters out like a light.” May remarked, watching as Jessica sauntered through the door. She packed through a series of rifles, each of which clicked and clanged as she did so. The shipment amused Jessica slightly, since in the simplest form, she watched the good guys prepare an exchange of guns to the bad guys. “Any luck?”

“Found their meeting point – and Spud believes my kid is somewhere in the country.”

“You didn’t tell him who you were, did you?”

“Course not.” Jessica retorted as she ripped open their temporary fridge. “I might not be a spy, but I’ve done my fair share of lying to get into places.” There was a tone of pride in Jessica’s voice, as she replayed the various times her lies had gotten her into places. A nostalgia flickered in her eye, provoking a quiet scoff from May. “What is all of this stuff May?”

“Guns – our way int-”

“No – this agent crap.” Jessica remarked, waving her hand in frustration – almost indicating to everything that she’d struggled through to reach where she was. “I mean, why is it here? Why are we tiptoeing around actual world-wide threats?”

May sighed, glanced towards Jess and shrugged her shoulders. “This is the way SHIELD has always been. Careful, tactical. Mindful that running in all guns blazing isn’t a good idea.”

“But handing HYDRA guns is?” Jessica’s voice was adamant and determined as she responded promptly and bluntly. “You’ve got a woman who can make sonic waves from her hands, recently a metal-melting man and I have super strength. Why do we need to be so careful?”

“Because we risk everything if we don’t. If stuff goes a way the President, or anybody else isn’t happy with, then they frown. They watch, angrily, waiting to tear the remains of SHIELD apart. You want to go in and fight, then on your head be it – but strategy is what works for us. Not emotion.”

Jessica sighed heavily. She understood May’s argument – she had seen first hand how emotion had led her into the dark pits of pain – at least, in the flickers of memory that appeared as she thought back to her confrontation of Kilgrave.

As silence settled amongst the group, Jessica glanced back to May, She dropped herself upon the couch and glared across directly to her. “You and that Dr Garner had a thing, didn’t you?” She asked, watching as May grabbed a can of beer and slumped down besides her. May was quiet, but there was enough confirmation in the silence – after all, May’s own father stated silence was her way of a yes. “What happened?”

“Nothing.” May replied coldly, glaring back to Jessica. “Not everything in my life has to be shared with SHIELD.”

“Ironic.” Jessica remarked. “I checked my file back at the base – everything you had on me, all the way from when I was a baby. You lot know everything about everyone except yourselves. Hunter’s lying to Bobbi and Coulson. Bobbi and Fitz lied to Coulson. I’m sure there’s other stuff you’re all keeping close to your chests.”

Jessica sighed, staring straight towards the cream peeling wallpaper before her. She watched at how the fading sun reflected from it, how it glossed in the warmth of the sun.

“You’re telling me everything was on file?”

Jessica hesitated. There were gaps in the files about the experiments done to her and her mother. But she’d ignored those, buried them with the rest of the shit in her life she had little need to be worrying about now. Yet, May’s words unearthed a nugget of doubt and questions that had rooted itself deep in her mind.

***

Once the following day came around, the trio headed towards the warehouse. They split themselves up, leaving Jessica alone to wander in afterwards, to that no questions were raised about why they had entered together.

The warehouse was lit by the warm glow of the sun, which broke through the shattered frames of windows, and illuminated the bloodshed that stained the chanting circle. Men and women cheered and bet their money away, proudly watching bloody fists smash and pound into bloody bodies. Their enjoyment was sadistic and brutal, fuelled by fighters falling unconscious or even nearing death.

May and Hunter felt unease, realising that Hunter’s life was being put at risk. Although a trained fighter, his frame was smaller than the other competing mens’. He looked menial in comparison, tiny and weak, despite some toning of muscle to his chest. Rattling in his pocket was a brass knuckle, his final resort if things turned to a desperate pleading situation.

Although, as they locked eyes with an evidently furious Spud, they noticed his attention began to stray. In fact, as they followed his eyeline with some curiosity, they watched as it met with Jessica, who wandered in with a sense of untouched casualness. He was distracted, enamoured, clearly still caught up on what had had missed from yesterday.

Yet this wasn’t enough to deter Spud from his original intentions. As Hunter entered the ring with a cloud of arrogance following him, spurred on by cheering bystanders, he bounced around excitedly. Both he and Spud ripped off their shirts, revealing Hunter’s rival in the match to be the man whose burly body was much heftier than his own.

Although the fight was unbalanced, leaning in Spud’s favour for the most part as he beat and bruised and punched and threw the smaller man, there was a fortune to be found. A slight drunken sway left in the man’s hungover state, struggling to reach his full prowess. Hunter eventually found Spud to tire and weaken, eventually not needing the brass knuckles as he beat a Spud into a bloodied mash.

During the fight, May had slipped off to fend off against a trio or predatory men, whose incessant harassment had led to a release of untapped fury to be brought out amongst them. Leaving her grinning with satisfaction as she returned to find Spud unconscious, struggling to breathe.

Whilst Jessica watched cautiously, paranoid that Spud would be beaten to a bruised pulp and verging into death. Yet, fortunately, Hunter won with the agent of HYDRA still breathing – even if he did have a vendetta.

May watched as the bloodied Hunter was dragged away into the depths of the warehouse, hesitating to follow, but still cautious. Moments later the cheering continued, and Spud’s body was drawn out from the debris of a fractured table. Yet, the eruption of cheering was spurred on by the entrance of Jessica, who had thrown her jacket to the ground and approached the man leading the contest. “Spud told me, this is the way to meet the boss.”

“Ain’t for the faint hearted, love. Spud almost got killed.”

“By a man not much taller than myself. If I win, I want in too.” Jessica was determined, feeling the piercing agitated glare of May behind her. The man, whose rectangular face was shrouded in a scruffy beard, shrugged his shoulders. The orange checkered jacket swayed in the wind he caused for a moment, before waving his hand towards the crowd, calling upon someone else.

May considered stepping in, being an easy fight, but then she considered her distance from Jessica. Wanting to avoid any connections being made between her and the other agents in her team.

Instead, May watched as a large man wandered in. His beard was thick, with hair bursting out of his vest as a sign that the man was more of a beast than a man. Hidden beneath the mounds of curling thick brown hair, was a dastardly smile. Proud of himself as he prepared himself for his demonstration of where he believed Jessica to be.

Jessica smirked as she looked up towards the beast of a man, hearing the manager of the fight offer her a final chance out. Yet, with a swift and adamant rejection, the man waved his hand and backed out of the way.

Within seconds, a fist with raw power swung through the air. Everybody who watched stared with anticipation, expecting the beast’s plummeting fist to be an instant knock to Jessica, expecting her to be on the floor within moments. To everybody’s surprise, however, the fist halted midair. Caught by Jessica’s own hand, with no struggle nor sweat beading from her forehead.

Silence followed, as the crowd glued their eyes to the spectacle before them. Firm iron-like strength fuelled Jessica’s powerful grip. The shock and tension resonated in the air, as they watched in amazement. They had all underestimated Jessica and her small frame, which only allowed Jessica to relish in their silence, before they continued cheering in excitement.

A guttural roar beckoned from the man, as he yanked his fist back and swung his other arm. The arc he had swung it in was violent and fast, but Jessica was quick. Her agility, the small frame she was underestimated for, was used to her strength, as she stepped jolted forward and delivered a devastating uppercut to his jaw.

The man lifted from the floor, flying upwards and smacking his head against the concrete ceiling, before collapsing to the floor. There was no chance of the man, who had no fallen unconscious, stumbling back to his feet.

An eruption of cheers and applause burst across the room. Shock transformed into excitement, as people laughed and jeered at the unconscious beast resting on the floor.

The manager approached hesitantly, grinning as she caught her gaze. “Boss’ll be interested in you.”

***

Jessica stood before Kebo, a balding dark skinned man, whose hands flicked through documents. A scar lined his face, whilst a growing collection of stubble lined his chin. He grinned at Jessica, watching as the man thrust her down into the seat and head out from the room.

“The boss don’t like it when it’s easy.”

“Who said it was easy?” Jessica remarked with instant and impressive speed.

“Well, considering the last one came in bloody and beate-”

“He found it harder, that’s all.” She interjected, trying to find something behind the man’s dark and cruel eyes. Jessica leant forward. “You need strength, because clearly manpower isn’t enough.”

Leaning back in his chair, Kebo dropped the papers onto the table and chuckled as he stared back to Jessica. “Strength, huh? Of course, we need muscle, but you need more than a lucky punch to prove your worth.” Jessica hesitated as her eyes locked with hers, teeming with a confidence that battled against his arrogance. She sighed, thinking of May’s words about strategy and emotion.

“And how do you need me to prove it?” Her voice was steady and calm, but it merely masked the storm of terror which raced inside her mind. Despite the raging clouding storm, she needed to be focused. She needed their trust, to get inside. To get closer to the information she needed. Information about her child. About Kilgrave’s plans.

Nodding his head with a gleam of pride written across his face, Kebo stood up and walked around the desk. He stopped a few inches away from her, analysing and assessing her. Contemplating whether the suggestion that sat on the tip of his tongue was in any way a good idea. “We’ve got a shipment coming in tonight. Important cargo, which needs to be secured and transported without interference. Reckon you could handle that?”

Jessica replied without hesitation, nodding her head with a sense of nonchalance written across her face. “Consider it done.”

“You’ll have a team assigned with you – making sure you don’t get any particular ideas.”

*

That night, Jessica met with the assigned team. Stern and silent men who lingered by the docks with a resonating fury in their eyes. Distrust lined their eyes, frustration toned their words – but Jessica had no care. Her apathy grew with each glare thrown her way, because she was focused. She had a task to complete, a strategy to enact.

Thick fog lingered in the air, whilst the midnight moon glistened high above them. The shipyard was barely visible, although it was navigable enough for the team to not require torches – after all, that only made their mission more obvious to passersby.

They wandered through the shipyard, searching for a containers that had been jotted down as HYDRA property. Jessica was swift in finding the cargo of guns that was handed over by Hunter, having known where to find it before. Her eyes were busy noting down positions of security cameras and other guards, keeping the information stored away in her mind for any future need by SHIELD.

The other men worked with synchronised efficiency. Mechanical and automated, with perfect precision and timing, all to indicate their specific training.

One man, whose tallness and shaven head suggested some position as a leader, barked out orders. “Get that door open and be quick about it!”

Jessica was prompt, pushing men aside and ripping off the metallic lock. The creaking down hinged open, revealing simple, unassuming crates lined up inside. Nothing particular seemed to distinct them from anything else that could be found, besides small packaging labels.

As the men and Jessica began to transfer the crates, which Jessica’s strength allowed for an amplified easiness for, her eyes caught sight a different symbol. She’d seen the symbol in the laboratory in the SHIELD base – a sign for a medical crate, with a flapping label marking it as a special delivery. As the men continued to haul away the gun crates, her eyes glazed over the delivery information – shipped from the UK.

Trying to appear as normal as possible, Jessica pried open the crate. It creaked slightly, wooden splinters spattering out, as her eyes investigated the inside. Medical equipment of unusual kind, with a singular file. It was marked with a confidential label, and was seemingly the exact answer she needed.

“What are you doing back there?” Snapped the man, watching as Jessica investigated the label once again. His eyes watched her carefully, and noted that her head swung back around with a fearful glance, which faded within moments.

“Just making sure we got everything,” A façade of calm hiding away the apprehension that resonated in her heart.

Once the final crates were loaded, Jessica’s mind raced with fear. She clung to hope the file resting against her chest was an answer she needed. The fog grew thicker, and the moonlight struggled to pierce through the mist. Her hands trembled, but her face was stoic.

Chapter Text

Even with Matthew Murdock at the side of SHIELD, the events early in the inter-crossing timeline play out seamlessly. Coulson forms an alliance with the ATCU, using Lincoln as their seal of agreement. In this universe, Matthew gives Lincoln more warning to escape, but the decisions made elsewhere meant the reforming SHIELD joined together with the newly created ATCU.

Yet, the events that follow after differ, as Matthew Murdock’s senses come to incredible use to save the lives of Inhumans.

***

Hunched in a black SUV, parked by a series of apartments that glistened with lamplight in the darkness of the night, Daisy, Mack and Matt waited. They were back up, a precaution should anything go wrong as an Inhuman known as Alisha hurried in to rescue two other Inhumans from the Inhuman sanctuary once called the ‘Afterlife’.

Although Matt had tried to concentrate on the details, the specific explanation that Alisha’s Inhuman power was duplicating herself and was sending down a clone to interact with her former friends, because they were being hunted down by the ATCU, baffled him. But he listened carefully anyway.

His ears tuned to a cozy cooking night, interrupted by a knock on the door which provoked the pair into terror until they spotted the red-haired Inhuman anxiously at their door. Daisy and Mack were practically silent, turning their heads to Matt as they relied on him for any updates. His heightened senses managing to reach through the building meant he could essentially spy on them if he needed.

Once the door had closed, he could hear Alisha beginning to explain why she had arrived – but Matt’s ears caught the grunting sound of a man. His nose caught the smell of an expensive cologne, the exact kind he had caught lingering around Dr Garner. He cocked his head and leant forward, only able to briefly comment. “I didn’t know Dr Garner wa-” His ears caught the sound of a deafening roar and the ripping of clothes, and instinctively jolted out of the car.

Pushing open the door, Matt considered the easiest way up to the apartment. It was only on the second floor, and his ears the wind bouncing off a variety ledges and poles he could cling to. He calculated it quickly in his mind, only really taking him a few seconds, before he burst up along the wall and smashing through the window.

Daisy and Mack followed, but they were too late to respond, as they now heard the splintering of the wooden door as it burst open. The Inhumans panicked, their attention split between the heavy thud of the smashed door and the shattering of glass that crossed the floor,

“Get out of here.” Matt demanded, pushing past the couple. His ears caught the roaring of a monster, which exhumed the smell of an expensive cologne worn by Dr Garner, but was coupled with sweat and a foul indescribable stench.

Matt’s ears listened as the creature charged forward, targeting him first as the clear aggressor in the situation. He threw a baton into the creature’s face, hearing it ricochet back with no effect on the bull-like creature. Alisha grabbed the couple, pulling them backwards as they stumbled in fear. One of the attempted the throw a newly-formed fireball towards it, before Matt’s raging voice demanded once again. “Leave! It’s after you!”

The Inhuman man grabbed hold of Alisha and his wife, leaping from the window to an almost panicked flee. Yet, Matt could hear as they hovered down slowly, using their powers to escape the dangerous casualty of the fall. Their feet thudded against the ground and Matt felt some comfort in his heart as she jolted out the way of the creature’s next swing.

However, it quickly became clear that the creature had no intention of fighting Matt now that the Inhumans had gone. Instead, it pummelled the ground, with such a tremor throwing Matt to the ground. Reaching for the couch, Matt reared himself to his feet, watching as the creature charged forward. Loudly,  a blast of a shotgun staggered his charge. Bullets flew threw the air, losing synchronised movement as they drew further across the room, but mostly managing to pierce the creatures back.

It turned back towards the shotgun, its eyes falling upon Daisy, who ran through the room and stood by Matt’s side as she burst the room with a powerful force. Sonic waves hit Matt’s ears, but they also managed to slam the target against the wall.

As the creature reared its body up, it lashed out against Daisy, who had attempted to soothe it. She noticed a human feature, a face clearly. The creature charged forward, generated a field of energy which disintegrated the wall, and charged into an escape.

“No, wait.” Matt stopped the pair from chasing after it. Matt’s ears listened. As the heavy feet pounded the ground in a hurried escape, the sounds of creaking and shrinking body mass sounded. It was painful, clearly, but the man beneath the creature didn’t seem to respond to the excruciating pain that transformed his body. In fact, Matt’s nose now caught the stench of sweat mingling with the expensive cologne.

“We have to find it!” Mack shouted, racing towards the disintegrated doorway.

“Him.” Matt panted, still trying to focus on the man as he ran. His feet pummelling the ground in a terrified succession, until he got too far that even Matt couldn’t hear it.

“Him?” Daisy asked cautiously.

“I think… I’m pretty sure… It’s Dr Garner. I recognise the smell so vividly.” Matt hesitantly stated, listening as Daisy and Mack shot each other worried glances.

Mack threw his hand to his ears, clicking on the earpiece before his deep and heavy voice called to Coulson. “Coulson, we were attacked – the Inhumans managed to escape, but Matt reckons the creature that attacked us here, and back at the hospital, is Andrew.”

“Andrew? Is he sure? That doesn’t make any sense.” Coulson’s disbelief was somewhat rooted in trust, but it didn’t stop him from racing towards a computer in the Quinjet and pulling up a copy of Andrew’s flight logs. After a few moments of quiet, and Mack’s confirmation of Matt’s certainty, Coulson came to a harrowing realisation. Andrew had taken a Quinjet to both the areas that the hospital and the apartment were in. He’d flown across the country, seemingly placing him in the exact points as the creature. “Find the Inhumans, bring them back to me. We have a lot to catch back up on.”

***

Matt stood in Coulson’s office, listening the buzzing of the screen behind him, as it flashed with the flightlog of Andrew. It detailed all the knowledge they had of the man, his education, family, relationship with May – but nothing amongst it suggested his Inhuman abilities.

Coulson’s eyes fixed on the screen, his eyes barely moving to glance around the brick walls or the heavy glass windows which divided the room from the corridor. Even with the office filled with Coulson’s highest ranking team members, he hesitated to speak a word. Trust had been broken, his faith for their mission corrupted. The notion of another monster hiding in their ranks broke him slightly.

“I just- I don’t get it.” Daisy remarked, glancing back towards the flashing information, her eyes drawn back to the recent flight logs. “He didn’t hurt Joey, and he didn’t hurt me. But he’s targeting Inhumans, even though he is one himself.” Her disbelief toned her words, catching her in a state of paralysis as her eyes flickered between the flashing screens.

“We were bringing them to him.” Mack commented, flickering his eyes towards Daisy with a pale horror in his eyes. A shameful guilt shining in his eyes as he looked back to her. “Our intel was enough for him to hunt them down. He knew we had Alisha on our side.” Mack continued, his deep voice filling with sorrow.

“No.” Matt stated, shaking his head. “They said they received an email… Somebody else is hunting them down. Or Dr Garner emailed them.”

“Emails are clean.” Remarked Coulson, changing one of the screens to a remote view of Dr Garner’s computer. He revealed nothing was out of the ordinary, no search results that raised alarms, no secret accounts or messages. “The reason we’re all shocked, is because Andrew kept this so well hidden. He made sure there was no paper trail.”

“Doesn’t matter if we can track him. There’s still the issue that he managed to survive a shotgun to the back, a baton to the head, and a force push. How do we stop him?” Matt asked, his focus much more on preventing the issue than understanding it. There was a few uncertain glances around the room.

Daisy promptly filled the resonating silence amongst them, glancing nervously around the room. “We have the module, which will contain him. But that’s a short-term strategy.” Her eyes pleaded for more involvement, practically begging for help from anybody else.

“Andrew’s been seeing Simmons to help with her recovery. We could say she needs help, call him back. Subdue him when he’s in human form.” Fitz suggested, the sound of defeat lacing his words already as his mind focused on an entirely different issue.

“And how do we know that subduing him won’t just activate a natural defence. If he goes beserk, rampaging around the base, we’re screwed.” Mack’s voice was firm, as was the position he held as he glanced back to Fitz. An adamant rejection to the proposal, as he replayed the swarm of bullets which barely scraped the skin of the creature they were facing. “Not to mention, May should know.”

“We’re giving May space while she’s on leave.” Coulson’s voice carried a sense of undeterred finality to it, as his eyes shot across the room towards Mack within moments.

“We’ve just found out her husband is an Inhuman-killing Inhuman. An Inhuman who can disintegrate walls and survive gunshots.”

“I don’t think the fact he’s Inhuman is so much the deal here, Mack.” Daisy retorted, glaring back towards him as he argued with Coulson. “It’s the fact he’s killing people. Inhuman or not – given the chance, are we sure he wouldn’t have killed any of us. We got lucky.”

“Regardless,” Coulson interjected, sensing a rising argument between them. “We’re not involving May. I feel a little guilty about not telling her that her husband is a homicidal maniac, but she needs rest.” Coulson paused as his eyes scanned the room, analysing each of the expressions that was caught on their faces. “Fitz’ plan works – Andrew’s already set course for this morning. He’ll want to examine Alisha and the Hansen couple. When he’s down that corridor, we’ll sedate him and put him in Containment.”

“And when he comes to and lashes out?” Mack asked, raising his eyebrow towards Coulson, setting a clear divide in his position.

“Then we’ll sort that out too. But he won’t be able to turn into that creature. Understood?”

Each of the team members nodded their head in agreement, hesitant to comply with Coulson’s statement, but knowing the importance of agreeing. They had some comfort knowing that amongst them was a plan – a strategy in dealing with one of the biggest threats put to them.

“What do we tell the ATCU?” Daisy asked, glancing back to Coulson as they began to file out.

“Nothing. We have everything under control.” Coulson was stern and serious, his eyes resonating with the authority he enjoyed wielding in his role. There was no doubting his place in power as he shot a glare towards Daisy as she left. She felt some comfort that SHIELD was keeping its hand a secret from the ATCU, still feeling angry at their attempt to whisk away just a few days ago.

***

The white glare of the containment module was powerful. It was almost incredible how pristine it was, as it burned down into Dr Garner’s eyes. Moments later the strength was disturbed by the looming figure of Daisy and Mack, whose hands clasped onto a clipboard and a battery pack attached to the clip on microphone.

Andrew nervously laughed as he came to, the last flicker of memory being a piercing needle ooze a warm liquid into his arm, as he conversed with Alisha. He remembered the dreariness and droopiness and the tiredness that passed over him, as his eyes glanced back in confusion as they met with Coulson’s behind him.

His hope of humour faded, as his eyes adjusted to the piercing glare of the white blinding light, and he spotted the anger written across Daisy’s face. In fact, anger would be too weak a word to describe the expression resting upon her face. She was furious and outraged, wanting nothing more than to lunge forward and smack the doctor across the face.

“Am I missing something here?” Andrew commented, now feeling the optimism that there was a misunderstanding drain from him. His eyes danced between Daisy and Mack, hoping to find an answer, but there was nothing he could latch onto.

“Technically, you’re missing your abilities.” Daisy remarked, sitting down upon the folding seat she’d prepared herself before he’d came to. Andrew nervously chuckled once again, uncertain how to respond. He kept the façade of confusion for a while, adamant he didn’t know what was happening.

“Look – I don’t know what’s going on, but I have things to be doing. Is this some way to try and threaten me? Intimidate me into accepting the new Inhumans into your… secret warriors? Treating me like them.”

“Does being treated like them upset you?” Mack asked, his eyes glaring down upon Andrew with rage, his hulking body casting the light into shadow for Andrew.

“Not necessarily,” He shiftily replied, nervous and gulping slightly to dampen the dryness of his mouth. “But being kept prisoner for no reason upsets me.”

“Inhumans being targeted upsets me.” Daisy retorted quickly. Her eyes fixed. Her voice angered. Her body unmoving as it leant forward. “Being betrayed upsets me. Knowing that my friends are in danger, that upsets me.” Now it was clear she was blaming Andrew for something, although he pertained to the story that he was clueless. Uncertain. Shocked by the accusation. A laughter in his voice suggested a sense of cautious light-heartedness.

“Daisy, I don’t know what you th-”

“Your cologne.” Daisy interjected, her voice short as it snapped. “Matt could smell it last night. He could hear you panting as you ran away from the attack. Then we checked your flight logs. It didn’t take us long to put everything together and realise you’re that… creature. You’re killing Inhumans.”

Andrew tried to deny it at first, but the enraged glare from Daisy’s eyes was enough to deter him from those efforts. Instead, Andrew sighed, his mind distinguished between rage and calm, eventually settling for sorrow.

“I- I can’t help it.” He panted, shutting his eyes to feel the comfort of the creature’s absence. Yet, even in it’s absence, the desire to kill Inhumans burned inside him. “When I was researching about Inhumans, I was exposed to Terrigenisis – and it awoke some inside of me. A-  A bloodthirst. And now I want to find end this whole Inhuman crisis, just like you at SHIELD.”

“There’s no crisis.” Daisy barked back in frustration. The crisis is humans – humans and their desire to cleanse the world. To kill us. I had hoped that another Inhuman would understand that – not fall for it.”

Andrew shook his head, a glint in his eye was new and unique. Angry, hungry, teetering on greed and thirst. “We’re unnatural in this world. Unstable. Consider everything out there, Daisy. We’re create an imbalance. But we can fix that. Equal out the field. Don’t keep me in here.” His panting grew louder and heavier, as his eyes became ravaged by desire. Staring at Daisy, his eyes were almost sizing her up, readying himself.

“Until we find a way to rehabiliate you-”

“Or cure you.” Mack interjected, shooting a cautious glare to Daisy, settling a stern expression back upon Andrew. Daisy glared back, a million arguments swirled her mind, but she knew they weren’t relevant. She swallowed her tongue and glanced back to Andrew.

“We can’t let you go.”

“No – let me at least talk to Melinda. Please.” There was a glimmer of desperation in his eyes, panic and terror. Daisy and Mack looked uncomfortably between each other, unsure how to respond. Coulson’s orders dictated May be left alone, but they held out some hope that May was a way to change the mind of Andrew. Although they knew it was foolish and naively optimistic, it seemed a more humane approach and worth the shot.

Yet the deliberation that was conducted between their expressions was interrupted. The door slid open, and for a moment, Andrew felt a sigh of relief. A part of him found the small gap an opening to freedom, but it was brief.

Not to mention, his eyes fell upon May. She donned a furious glare and a black leather jacket. Her hair bobbed as she strolled inside, whilst refusing to give Mack and Daisy a glance. Behind her, Coulson watched with uncertainty, a clear frustration written across his face.

Instead, her focus rested upon Andrew.

“Melinda – please.” Andrew sputtered his words between panting breathes. “You know I’m not a monster.”

“Andrew…” She sat down beside him and clutched hold of his hand. Her voice was soft, uncharacteristic for May, but her eyes were stern and powerful. “You need help. Serious help. Because I don’t think these powers are random. I think they’re based on something deep down, and yours… yours show me that you’re twisted. You’re rotten straight to the core. You left me. Kept quiet for ages. And now I know why. Because if you really had a good heart, and I could really… really trust you, we would’ve been working on a way to help you.” May grew angrier by each sentence, until a rage akin to Daisy’s filled her face.

“No, I just didn’t know… I didn’t know what to say. What to do.” He begged, a pleading in his voice.

“Save it.” She stated, glaring angrily as his façade of desperation failed. “It’s over, Andrew. And I just have to pray there’s a way they can fix whatever is wrong with you. Because the way you are now, you’re going to be HYDRA’s top priority and if they ever get their hands on you… then you’ll be a problem I have to take out.”

***

Jessica watched May carefully as she stormed past Coulson’s office with raging fury, a mask to the pain she felt nestled into her hearts. She felt the temptation to help, to intervene, but she knew better. The reaction was familiar to Jessica, something her therapist had told her as she coped through the trauma of her childhood and the trauma of Kilgrave.

Her eyes glanced around the room, feeling the focus of the room rest upon her. Besides Matt, who may have even been staring at her through the blackness of his glasses, she felt and saw the room’s eyes fixed on her. Usually, when having to deliver news from an investigation, it was to one or two people, but something unsettling arose as she glanced around the room.

“Look, before I start, all of this spy shit would be so easily sorted if you stopped spying. We know where HYDRA is, you know the damn leader. But May says you insist on working in the shadows, which means you’re perfectly balanced with them.”

Coulson grew a concerned expression, his eyes watching Jessica carefully. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Jessica sighed and dropped the brown file on his desk, her eyes glanced around the room. She saw Matt listening carefully, Bobbi, Mack and Daisy focused on the words she spoke. Fitz and Simmons siphoning through data together, hunched over a small data pad.

“Operation Pandora – HYDRA’s four proposed projects on how they plan on using my child.” Fitz swivelled around, Simmons by his side with a glimmer of happiness as normality returned around her. Her gleaming smile uttered the next explanation, her British accent catching Jessica’s attention, before instinctively dismissing it.

“Kilgrave’s powers worked via a virus. It’s believed in the nine months before he died, that he was benefitting from enhancement to these powers. HYDRA plan on finding out how the virus works – how specifically works. Because logically, it doesn’t. Cures, enhancements. The technology Jessica found with this file is all about that.”

“But there’s more.” Fitz added, racing across the room to the file and swinging open the pages. “Operation Pandora has four projects. Project Marionette suggests they keep the child as a puppet, use it to their own means. Project Arachnid, a proposition to let the child become it’s autonomous mastermind, building webs of influence. Project chameleon suggests they train it to be the perfect spy, whilst Project Echo suggests they convert the child into a centre of intelligence operations.”

“So, a lot of plans for one baby.” Mack commented, grinning at the overwhelming list.

“But why do they have so many different plans? Surely, it’d be better to focus on one.”

“Perhaps they’re observing the child, seeing what approach could be best. It’s a premature birth, only one month old.”

“Two now.” Jessica remarked quietly and hesitantly. Wanting to ensure the room remembered what they were talking about exactly, her eyes glanced around the room.

“They’ll have a goal.” Matt interjected into the silence that stemmed from Jessica’s comment. “When… when Stick trained me, his goal was always to make me fight his war. His goal was always to protect Elektra. No matter which they choose, they’ll all be similar in their goal.”

“It’s HYDRA, their only goal is the same. World domination.” Coulson’s pessimistic voice permeated through the room, as Fitz handed back the file and let him flick through the pages.

“But they’re also all similar in the exact way.” He started, jolting towards the screen. “They all put the child in a normal, safe and controlled environment. Unsuspecting parents, probably in a suburban house.”

“So they’ve made the child untraceable?” Daisy asked, spinning her head around to Fitz, catching a slight misery in Jessica’s eyes as she did so. As he confirmed it, he tried his best to deviate his gaze from Jessica, but she had already leant against the wall, taking a heavy and deep breath.

“Begs the question: why?” Coulson commented, glancing up as he took a break from the compilation of strategies. He glanced up towards the array of screens, each displaying different surveillance feeds and maps and analysis of data. Captured in a cold silence, the room waited. The minds considered the unravelling news before them. Even glancing at the wall before them showed they were trapped in a web.

“Whatever they want with the child, it’s important for their endgame. This isn’t just covering bases, it’s a blueprint. A blueprint for the best strategy – the best approach that yields response. HYDRA is patient, it’s been waiting around for centuries… the Winter Solider is evidence of that. We… we can’t tell what this baby is going to end up being used for.” Jemma’s voice was sceptical, her tone was certain and knowledgeable.

“HYDRA will spend resources protecting the child – which we need to consolidate our approach. Double down on surveillance and tracking down that baby, as well as taking out HYDRA’s findings.”

“With all due respect, sir,” Mack stepped forward, his eyes glimmering caution as he spoke. Matt could hear his beating heart pound against his chest, apprehensive to explain what rested on his mind. “We have so much to focus on at the moment. We’re rescuing Inhumans, dealing with the ATCU, dealing with Andrew, Simmons is recovering from the Monolith, and Hunter’s out to kill Ward. Is it such a good idea exerting our energy into HYDRA?”

Bobbi wandered forward, her attention having been elsewhere during the majority of the discussion so far. Her eyes glanced between Coulson’s awkwardness, Jessica’s discomfort and Mack’s guilt. Her movement drew the contemplative silence towards her. “HYDRA will be relentless… but we have the resources to track them down. Best approach, in my opinion, is calling Hunter off his mission. Standing down and letting Jessica intercept – with May, or even myself at her side.”

Coulson glanced towards the window for a moment, her mind thinking back to the anger in May’s face. The pain and betrayal. He now felt the futility in keeping her away – seeing how not involving her only dragged her into more chaotic work.

“Ward knows you both – and you’re not ready for field work.” Coulson said, dismissing the idea with finality to his voice. “But if Jessica is ready, putting her in place of HYDRA could work.”

*

Wandering into the makeshift gym of the headquarters, Jessica watched as Matt pummelled his fists into a creaking and trembling punching bag. It swung around with it’s creaking chain above, his fist colliding with incredibly intensity. Although she knew that he sensed her presence, she still remained silent. Observing quietly, fascinated.

Eventually he stopped, after the punching bag grew tired of swinging and Matt’s muscles and fists ached from the swinging of his fists. His head turned to her direction, whilst a smile crossed his face. His hands were bruised slightly, the knuckles aching with some pain, as he avoided using anything to guard them.

“It’s impressive. For a blind guy, those punches really have some good aim.” Jessica remarked wandering in closer with her arms crossed. Matt wandered across to wipe away the beading sweat that leaked from his forehead, irritated by the sensation of the sweat dripping down his forehead. His swigged a gulp of water too in the process, smirking at Jessica as he replied.

“Not being able to see has it’s benefits.” He stated, provoking an intrigued expression across Jessica’s face. “For example, I can tell when you’re annoyed. Upset. Offended.”

Jessica nodded her head, she sighed deeply as she caught onto the meaning of his words. She picked up a small heavyweight, playing with it casually to keep her mind at bay whilst she spoke. “My child, Matt. It’s my child. And we’re treating it like an operation. Everybody is treating it like it’s one of these fancy pieces of tech. But it’s my child.”

“They know what they’re doing, Jessica – they’re trained on this, know it inside out.”

“I think I’m just used to everything being screwed up by Kilgrave. Twisted and fucked, to the point I can’t see what’s normal anymore.”

“At least he’s dead.” Remarked Matt, coldly, placing down the water bottle and wandering towards the punching bag once again. “We can live safely knowing Kilgrave put that asshole down.”

“You’re fine with the fact he murdered him?” Jessica retorted with some frustration in her voice as she saw Matt’s calmness.

“No – I live with that moment in my mind. The noise, the fading heartbeat. But, I then realise that Kilgrave is gone. And I live with some comfort knowing that whatever is thrown our way, means we never have to see that bastard ever again.”

Chapter Text

They say some things are inevitable. That some things you just cannot change – which seems a strange notion when dealing with the multiverse. If anything can happen, why is something grounded in some mystical sense of certainty.

I’m sure the Watcher would tell you nothing is inevitable, but when you look between this universe and the universe you know, it’s obvious somethings happen no matter what. Kilgrave was killed. In your timeline and in mine. But why doesn’t it feel as satisfying? Why do I not feel confident that he’s really gone?

***

There wasn’t much conversation on the Quinjet. Jessica stared across towards May, whose blank stare indicated her desire to not speak a word. Underneath the eyeshadow was a swirling mixture of pain and sadness and anger. The rumbling of the ship didn’t phase her, nor the crackling of thunder, nor Hunter’s frustration as it was revealed he wasn’t to go ahead with the plan. Everything was numb.

Eventually, after twenty minutes, Jessica crossed over the ship and sat down beside May. Unfolding the leather seat, her eyes glanced towards her. May’s eyes narrowed in suspicion and annoyance as she turned around and found Jessica sat by her side for no apparent reason. Although there was a glimmer in Jessica’s eyes, a reassuring hope of conversation – which almost aggravated May more.

“I can’t say I know how you’re feeling-”

“Then don’t say anything.” May snapped back, her voice was quiet but her eyes swirled with the anger that nestled in her mind. Her cold response matched the air that lingered in the Quinjet, as they burst through the thick grey clouds.

Pursing her lips, Jessica considered her next words carefully. She leant back, trying to act as though she was ignoring May’s harsh snap. “I was going to say, I understand what it’s like to deal with monsters.” Jessica commented, provoking a small flicker of reassurance flash in May’s eyes, before it faded back into the continual anger in her glare. Taking the silence that followed as an invitation, Jessica leant forward. “Men – they’re the monsters. I mean, look at us. I was kidnapped by one, your husband turned out to be one, we’re hunting down a man who tried to off you’re team. We’re neck-deep in HYDRA, a boys club of assholes who think fists are the solution. It’s not on you, May.” Jessica’s words switched between a tonal quip to a slight sense of vulnerability.

Undeterred by Jessica’s expression of softness, May remained silent. Her gaze was fixed elsewhere, simply listening to Jessica. She heard Jessica’s frustrated sigh. “You’re angry, I get it. But this all this shit with Andrew, you’re not alone. Because that asshole chose to make things bad between you and distanced himself from the people who can help him. But back there? They all look up to you. You.”

There was a flicker of gratitude in May’s eyes as they finally met Jessica’s. But that flicker was snuffed out by the raging storm of emotions and May’s general stoicism.

“Focus on the mission,” May’s voice was unreadable, leaving Jessica uncertain if she’d made any progress on helping her.

Returning back across the Quinjet, Jessica made sure not to disturb May any more than she had. Settling on the fact she had said her piece, she decided it was best to wait and leave it for a moment. She reminded herself that SHIELD wasn’t her business – that the affairs of May and the other agents was part of a wider story that she bore no relevance in.

Eventually the Quinjet landed. With the descending ramp letting the pair out to pursue their mission, the Quinjet quickly shot into the sky. It’s blast of wind was a force May and Jessica pushed against, with the only words exchanged between them being instructional.

They hurried to the hideout that they had held for the past few days, entering into the cream white of the apartment, and finding nothing but the obtusely bland décor. Hunter’s clothes had been neatly packed, with the only thing not in his possessions being his phone and gun. As May rifled through the apartment for any sign where he’d gone, she angrily found herself empty-handed.

She launched her phone to her ear, listening to the incessant ringing as she reached through to Coulson. His charismatic and gentle voice greeted her, but she was in no mood for a conversation. “Hunter’s gone.” She reported bluntly and quickly, interrupting Coulson without hesitation. “Is there a tracker on his phone?”

There was a pause in the line, Jessica watched carefully in anxious anticipation. “Bad news is, Hunter’s phone was deactivated. Signal cut out – probably destroyed. Good news is, Hunter put a tracker on himself. I’ll send it over to you now.” Coulson spoke with swift urgency, which helped sooth May’s frustration.

“I can’t believe he’d go off mission.” May’s anger burst from her, as she headed towards the door and swiftly jolted down the stairs. Jessica followed closely behind, watching May cautiously.

“It was probably a bad idea leaving Hunter alone.” Jessica remarked – and although she was meaning to put the blame on herself, her vague statement provoked an angry stare back from May, who halted in her steps.

“Don’t put this on me.”

“I’m not!” Jessica retorted defensively. With Jessica’s explanation, they thrust open the doors and set off to find a way to follow the tracker. “It’s Hunter – he’s a livewire about all this hunting down Ward stuff. I don’t blame him – I was hellbent on finding Kilgrave until I regretted it.”

“Well, if we don’t get there in time, Hunter’s a dead man. Livewire or not, he can’t take on all of HYDRA’s thugs.”

***

As Hunter was dragged out of the boot, he was led through a disused warehouse. Despite the clear signs that it hadn’t been used in years, with the rust of the ceiling, the glass frames barely stable and the damp lingering smell, there was a buzz of activity inside. He could hear the packing of crates and drilling and sawing. Guns clattering and conversations chattering.

Kebo and another thuggish man led Hunter through towards the main area where people congregated. They passed large cargo crates, eventually finding themselves at the centre of a busy operation.

“Director’s still mulling over a codename for the place. ‘Nemesis’. ‘Omega point’.” Kebo stated, his northern English accent bleeding from his mouth as a glimmer of pride resonated in his eyes.

Hunter, masked under the name of Richy, turned back with a glint of confusion. “Sounds a bit too SHIELD for my liking.”

“Rumour has it the Director spent some time with them.” Kebo smirked at Hunter, standing in his way of a corkboard that Hunter’s eyes nosily scanned in a hurry. Hunter felt a shiver down his shoulder, almost sensing a discomforting presence, before Kebo remarked.

“You planning some sort of assault?” Hunter asked, his eyes scanning a corkboard curiously. His eyes flickered around time tables and dates, names and maps. The key word he saw repeated, however, was ‘ATCU’. Kebo promptly stepped in the way, drawing Hunter’s attention towards a dastardly smirk written across his face.

“Always planning something.” His voice was low. Calm. “You can ask the director yourself. There was an expectation set for Hunter. Any normal person would swivel around and greet their boss, but Hunter was now trapped. His eyes darted towards guns on a nearby table, a quick glance confirmed they were loaded.

“So, this is the new guy.” That voice replaced the shiver with a slither of rage. The anger wrapped itself around his heart and seared itself into his mind. The voice was Grant Ward – traitor to SHIELD, and the man who held his ex-wife hostage and attempted to kill her. The very thought almost led him to an strategic fit of rage. Hunter took a deep breath. His eyes met with Kebo’s, who stared in confusion as the new recruit hesitated to turn around, even despite ordering him to. “Why so shy, Richy?”

“My name isn’t Richy, Director.” Once again, a realisation was made. Now Ward shared the shock, his eyes widened, his mouth gaping. His hand launched down towards his pistol, before the room cottoned onto the interceptor. The room filled with a clanging of metal as guns were reached for, whilst some were quicker to draw and unleashed a hail of bullets.

Hunter leapt forward and swiped a gun from the table. In a successful gambit, he jolted across towards a crate and held cover behind it. Glancing back around the corner, his fingers pulled against the trigger in quick succession. Three bullets fired from the gun, smacking against the bodies of the HYDRA thugs that littered the warehouse.

Ward had made a few unsuccessful shots, and was now dragged to safety, as Hunter began taking out thug after thug. There was no caution or care, it was a series of firing and blasting. “Come on, Hunter! You weren’t dumb enough to come here all cowboy were you?” Ward teased, as Hunter now realised Ward was aware of his lack of reinforcements. Hunter sighed, before shouting back.

“Sorry, is this coming from the guy who shot his own girlfriend by mistake?”

“I was hoping you were dead, and Bobbi was coming for me. At least that rematch would’ve been more even.” Hunter resisted the taunting of Ward’s voice, focusing for a moment as he tried to find the other HYDRA thugs and their locations. Nobody else seemed to be in sight, however. All was quiet. Too quiet.

“Hardly. I heard it two of you after hours of torture.”

“Yep, lesson learned. Should’ve rigged the door with a grenade.” Eventually Hunter’s ears caught onto a whistling sound of a bullet, whilst a man behind him collapsed to the ground in agonising pain. A burst of blood scattered the floor. Hunter’s eyes glanced up towards the source, before his eyes fell upon May. Posed with her leg against a beam, she glared down at Hunter. Shooting a series of calculated gunshots, her eyes glared down towards the man, fury glistening in her eyes.

May spun down towards the ground, her eyes fixed on Hunter angrily once she landed. “Disengage – that was your order.” She spoke, with a disconcerting calmness.

“My mission was to put Ward six feet under. Disengaging means I can’t do that.” Hunter argued, defending himself profusely. May’s eyes were unwavering. Her frustration expressed without a word uttered.

“Coulson needs Ward alive – he’s a key player in this Operation Pandora.”

“But surely killing the head of HYDRA puts that to rest.” Hunter argued, his eyes scattering around. Echoes of gunshots were followed by the sounds of the metal creaking.

“Not if there’s more to all this than we think. Coulson still has his doubts about the ATCU.”

“They’re not HYDRA.” Hunter dismissed, shaking his head. “Shady government organisation – yes. HYDRA, no.” They retreated to a different spot, gunning down a guard who had attempted to catch them off guard. “Listen – I need that son of a bitch dead. We all do.”

“No – Coulson needs him alive.” May was interrupted by another creeping guard, before continuing. “He’s got a plan – but it involves us conceding defeat.”

“If I shoot him, it’ll be over and done within seconds.”

“And you’ll be disobeying orders.” May’s voice was sharp and swift, but their conversation was promptly interrupted by Ward’s voice as it rang through the warehouse. Their ears tuned in, curious and attentive, their eyes doing a swift job in detecting any skulking guards.

“May, is that you?” Ward asked, his question left unanswered as he stood curiously. “Long time, no see! I was hoping to cause a little bit of mayhem with the weapons Hunter supplied so nicely. Draw SHIELD out – but here you are.” May resisted every temptation to fire back, as they now stood in clear shot of Ward’s makeshift office. Her eyes glared forward, clearly busy with something else. “Makes it a whole lot easier to take down SHIELD’s best fighter when she’s all alone in an unknown place, with an English idiot at her side. But then, I suppose being alone was always on the cards for you, May.”

There was a signal. A thud above May. Hunter barely noticed it, only taking note as May charged in. Her pistol swarming the wooden wall with a storm of bullets, eating away at the chipboard like woodlice.

Yet, her eyes were met by Jessica, who launched before her to rescue Ward in a flurried flee. May held off shooting for a moment, watching as Jessica returned from the doorway. May caught a glimpse of Ward cautiously watching, as Jessica stormed towards her with rage in her steps. His eyes watched as she dragged Hunter from his cover and threw them both across the warehouse.

Ward listened as May reported the new information to him – he grinned as he heard her explain that he had an enhanced solider on their side. She ordered Hunter to retreat after a series of gunshots sounded to be unsuccessful.

Ward cautiously returned from the cover, his eyes meeting with Jessica, whose focus was calm and angered. “Who are you?” He finally asked, now provided the chance. His ears still listened for May and Hunter, although they seemed to have fled in a quick and scuttering manner.

“This is Jessica, Director.” Kebo explained, pride resonating in his voice. “Another winner from the fight club. Helped with unloading the cargo here too.” Ward’s eyes glanced between Kebo and Jessica, raising his eyebrow with some suspicion.

“I don’t remember asking for you here.” Ward commented, glancing suspiciously. Jessica felt a small flutter in her heart, but she’d seen enough lies to know how to deliver the perfect one.

“I followed the woman.” Jessica explained. “Back at the fight club, I overheard them talking. Sounded shifty – so I spied on them. Agents for that SHIELD-thing – the one that dropped the helecarriers.” Her lie seemed plausible, and as Ward scanned her face for a twinge of falsehood, he couldn’t find any. “Thought it was best to track what they were doing.”

“Thinking for yourself saved my life. Saved the operation.” Ward commented, unsure how to navigate a gut feeling that told him not to trust Jessica. Ignoring that feeling, he held out his hand and held it firmly. “Welcome to HYDRA, Jessica. SHIELD has the Calvery – we have the juggernaut.”

***

HYDRA was prompt in its relocation. Another undisclosed warehouse kept off records for shady operations like this. Dingy and decrepit like the last, but with functioning toilet facilities which seemed to be the primary benefit.

Everything else had been a mess. The guns, cargo, data, resources all had to be packed up and discreetly transferred out of an area SHIELD was likely watching. Now it was positioned elsewhere. New men with new weapons, all focused on the same idea that Ward had focused on.

He stared at the corkboard, the various documents strapped to it, trying to reassure himself that the plan was destined to work. Beside him stood Kebo and Jessica, whilst the HYDRA thugs unloaded the weapons in preparation. “Once we sort this out, we’ll be one step ahead of them all.” Ward commented, glancing back around to catch a sight of his operation.

“What is it?” Jessica asked, trying to make sense of the array of information.

“The middle-man.” Ward commented, swivelling around fully before his eyes fell upon Jessica. Her eyes scanned the corkboard once again, before they fell upon the words ‘ATCU’, casting her mind back to the discussions being held back at the base. “SHIELD and the ATCU are both measuring each other up. They struck a cosy deal the other day, but they don’t know what we know.” Ward grinned, prompting Jessica to pry further for more information.

“Which is?”

“Where the ATCU is.” Kebo interjected, warranting a longer smirk across Ward’s face.

“We’re planning on attacking one of their facilities, taking what we can and then planting some false evidence. Basic job, but if it causes some tension between SHIELD and the ATCU, then we’re all good.” Lighting up Ward’s face was a devilish delight.

His arrogance fed through his expression, staring at the corkboard with immense pride. The plan was perfect, and was luckily not intercepted by Hunter – who Kebo claimed saw nothing on the board (or, in his words, “Nothing he could get his tiny mind around”).

“Tell Von Strucker we’re mobilising in 15 minutes. ETA of about 29 minutes.” Ward stated, glancing down at his watch, before his eyes shot back to Jessica. She hated the expression painted on his face. A sadistic glee, that she had seen carved into the face of Kilgrave. The scruffy beard didn’t help either, only finding fortune in the absence of purple. “We got the son of an old HYDRA legend in the ATCU. Nothing fancy besides computers, but it’s a step in.”

“IT’s the easiest way to intercept.” Jessica commented, thinking back to the few times she’s resorted to discreetly entering emails and computers without permission. Her remark lit up Ward’s always smiling face, a satisfaction in finding somebody who understood him.

“Exactly. Get’s the boy some training in the field work, makes sure there’s no connection to us. Simple and efficient, the way SHIELD would’ve done it.” A hint of nostalgia twinkled in Ward’s eyes, almost making Jessica consider that he missed the experience. Perhaps he did – perhaps all of this was a compensation for the team he lost in betrayal. But Jessica didn’t know, nor did she care. “Now, I need you on this mission. Brute force might be needed.”

Jessica wanted to refuse. She considered that back at SHIELD, her rejection of the request would’ve been fairly met by Coulson. It would’ve been inconvenient, but accepted nonetheless. Here, however, she was worried even considering saying no would result in her joining the mission in a body bag stuck in a boot.

So, with that all in mind, Jessica agreed within seconds. Sealing her own fate at Wards’ side.

Chapter Text

The death of Cornell Stokes was set off by a chain of Luke Cage’s involvement in his shady operations. It was sparked by the rage he ignited in his cousin, turning her trauma back on her and accusing her of wanting the experience she was a victim of. It was a horrid scene of blood and shattered glass and resurfaced traumatic memories.

But here, those events never came to fruition. Luke Cage managed to keep his face and name out of Cottonmouth’s view, illusively fighting back against the rising corruption of crime that bled through the streets of Harlem. Coupled with the fact that Pop’s barbershop was never caught in a horrid hail of gunshot, it seems that Luke Cage might never be caught in the sights of Cottonmouth.

***

“…The real question we should be asking: is the Fisk-Dillard policy working? Vigilantes are taking to the streets of Harlem to take out gun runners and drug dealers, but ain’t nothing working to prevent it. If their intervention don’t work, then criminals are just gonna be getting smarter.” Complained a caller, whose voice resonated throughout the barbershop. Luke stood, leant against a wall, as Pop busily chopped away at an elderly man’s hair. They interchanged tutting teeth and shaking heads, disagreeing with the man as he complained further.

“But there’s something to be said that making light of the criminals helps. Criminal activity should be addressed – and if the police can’t, or won’t, then we have to consider who will do it for us?” Trish Walker’s voice promptly interjected the call, her words marking the end of that segment and drawing the argument to a close. Pop glanced to Luke, nodding his head with a prideful glint in his eye. Knowing fully well it was him that Trish was talking about. “After the break, we’re going to discuss the attack on a governmental facility, and if we’re focusing too much on heroes than politics.”

Pop gestured for Luke to switch over the radio, satisfied enough with the conversation about vigilantes. “I like that Walker lady. She just gets it. I don’t think enough folk outside of Harlem do. They didn’t see the damage the Hulk did.”

“No, but a lot of them did see what the Avengers did.” Luke commented, a smirk across his face as he teased an argument back against Pop. Turning around to trim a side of the man’s head, Pop shot Luke a daring stare, warning him from joking about the situation any further.

“I’m serious, Luke. They talk about vigilantes like they’re out to make trouble, all the while they make toys and print shirts with the Avengers on.” Pop shook his head begrudgingly, thinking back to the night that the Hulk rampaged through the streets of Harlem, fighting the Abomination in a hue of horrid yellow. “The quicker people realise that we need heroes on the streets rather than the skies, the better.”

“Back in my day, we didn’t need no fancy heroes.” Remarked the elderly man, sat calmly and peacefully in the seat before Pop. Pop nodded his head, agreeing with the man as he continued around to begin shaving his beard. “Our heroes were the soldiers and police officers. The everyday folk. That’s what vigilantes are replacing.”

Pop patted the man on the shoulder, signalling his happy agreement with him, rubbing his hands before beginning to foam the man’s face in preparation for the shave. Luke chuckled about the idea, before finding a sit to drop down into. As music spread across the barbershop, filling a quiet need for background noise to comfort the lonesome chess player and the boys playing videogames, a chirpy ringing of the bell above the door drew the attention of the door.

Two detectives, gleaming smiles complimenting their faces. The first was Misty Knight, whose grey suit had a faint glimmer about it, converting it from dull to almost silver. She wandered over to Pop, smiling as she rested her hand on his shoulder as a form of greeting. Before turning back around. Her eyes flicked between Brigid O’Reilly as she entered, back to Luke Cage, who sat along a bench with an apprehensive glance to his eyes.

“Luke Cage…” Misty remarked, folding her arms and narrowing her eyes. A gleam was written across her face, expressing some shifty sense of pride. “Can we have a chat somewhere more…” Her eyes danced around the room, counting the additional three adults and two kids, all of whom she’d prefer not hear what she had to say to Luke. “Private?” At first, Luke was hesitant. Rooted in his gut was a distrust of officers, his mind always cast back to his unjust arrest.

Pop turned around, his eyes reassuring as he gestured for the back of the barbershop. Luke’s eye jumped between Pop and Misty, cautiously glancing to Brigid, before he nodded his head. Written across Pop’s face was a satisfied smile, returning to his job as the corner of his eyes fixated on the trio wandering into the back.

Luke’s feet were heavy against the ground as he wandered into the back, his eyes still lingering on Brigid as she shut the door behind her. Misty crossed her arms, her eyes staring at Luke up and down in suspicion. Their wide perspective almost eying him up.

Meanwhile, Brigid shot her arms, exposed by the folded sleeve, into her pockets before staring at Luke. “Every criminal we’ve dragged in recently has described the exact same vigilante. Muscular, tall, dark-skinned… and bulletproof.” Her eyebrow raised as she looked towards Luke, knowing for certain that three of those descriptors described him, with only a suspicion of the fourth. “Issue is, if we drag you into the police as a suspect, we’re risking your name be dragged into Cottonmouth’s view. Last thing you want whether you’re the vigilante or not, is Cottonmouth readying to hunt you down.”

“I own a bar in Hell’s Kitchen. I visit my deceased wife’s family while he grieves the death of a boy he tried to help. Last thing I need is to myself into business that ain’t mine.” Luke was stern, his voice serious. There was no hesitation in his rejection. A sense of sincerity crossed his face, even if he knew it was a façade. Despite the convincing nature of his words, neither Misty nor Brigid bought it.

“Listen, Luke, Chico’s death was tragic. And the NYPD are still hunting down leads. But they’re distracted by the crazy workload this vigilante is causing. Because not only do we now have a new case to file every single day, but this whole deal between Fisk and Mariah Dillard? Now it means we’re chasing down the culprit causing it all.”

“So if I was the vigilante you’d put me in handcuffs and send me down to be dealt with by Mariah?” Luke remarked, raising his eyebrow. Deep inside of him, the rooted suspicion and distrust grew, wrapping itself around his heart and mind.

Brigid smirked, “Would handcuffs even hold you back?” She asked, raising an eyebrow to match her teasing question. Misty shook her head.

“Look, if you’re the vigilante, we have no intention of stopping you. Before all this I was deadest against people like you, taking the law into your own hands. But we’ve got terror attacks across the country, and an upsurge of crime in our own city. Cottonmouth is growing more powerful, and all evidence about Chico’s death leads me to believe I can’t trust my own colleagues. So, Luke, tell us the truth.” There was a snap to Misty’s words. An eager bluntness which ignored the false pretences she had to hold as a police officer.

Something alluring about the attitude drew Luke’s attention to her, which he promptly dismissed as he glanced back to Brigid. Her keen eyes were consciously away of Luke’s truth, digging deep into the fact of the matter.

“Didn’t you have another partner?” Luke asked, interjecting the silence that was growing. His question baffled Misty, who stared puzzled by the irrelevance. Whilst Brigid was almost offended.

“Scarfe was transferred.” Misty stated calmly. Her sternness undeterred by Luke’s irrelevant question. She knew, deep down, she had an answer to find, and Luke’s disruption was nothing she hadn’t see before.

“Shame, he had that quality in a police officer that made you want to tell him nothing at all and instead tell you. Where’d he transfer to?”

“Luke.” Misty’s voice was quick, her words sharp.

“What do you want me to say, Misty? ‘Yes, I’m bulletproof?’”

“Ideally, yeah – and then some information about the next safehouse you’re going to take down, so we can get there first and prevent you from getting in trouble.”

Luke shook his head. He wandered across the room and found a small pair of scissors. They were cold against the hefty palm of his hand, mangled by a kid earlier, who had pulled both handles beyond the reach of the screw in the centre. Pop had grumbled as he took the scissors through to the back, masking his frustration with politeness.

Misty and Brigid exchanged a cautious glance, before their eyes were met by Lukes.

They watched as Luke held out the palm of his hands and dug the pointed end of the scissors into his palm. The pair let out a shocked horror, lunging forward to stop him. Yet their eyes were met by a blunted end bent of shape. Not a single drop of blood signalled any damage, and his skin appeared unharmed. Smooth and untainted, Luke’s palm was clear of any sign that a pair of scissors had just been attempted to dig into it.

“I don’t know the next safehouse – but Cottonmouth wants to start reigning in his debts after his safehouses were taken. I reckon the streets are going to be filled with his goons trying to intimidate people in any way they can.” Luke suggested, wandering across the room and taking hold of the door handle. Luke shot another glance towards them, a caution written into his eyes. “I want to be able to trust you – like I did a long time ago.”

Brigid and Misty both nodded and confirmed that he could, before he escorted them out from the barbershop. “Answer’s New Orleans, by the way.” Misty commented, glancing back to Luke as they began to wander out. “Scarfe’s new position was a detective over there.”

They exchanged a polite salutation to the others in the shop, before the ringing of the bell echoed throughout it. The door shut and Luke watched with some concern.

“Everything alright?” Pop asked, noticing Luke’s lack of movement from the door for a moment. He watched as the sun beat through the window and resided on his face, the wintery evening beginning to draw in.

Turning back around, Luke nodded his head. He hid the anxiety that pounded in his chest, not wanting to make much of a scene of the situation in front of others.

“I think I’m going to head back home for a bit. Check in on the bar.” Luke nodded his head, picking up a hoodie and heading out from the shop.

***

Hell’s Kitchen was rife with thick air and city buzz. The cold evening was dark as the sun retreated quickly in the afternoon. Cafes began to close whilst restaurants glistened with warm glows. Taxis packed the streets as people busied themselves in an effort to get home. Streetlamps cloaked the roads in orange glows, cast upon the grey dullness of the sidewalk.

Luke strolled back to his bar with some sense of calm resting upon his broad shoulders. He had left Harlem behind with some hope that the issues could be handled by Misty and Brigid. Whether that was the case or not, he couldn’t be sure, but nevertheless he arrived back at his bar.

The dark oak interior was dark but calming. It was gentle with it’s limited light, only glistening in the key areas – including behind the drink shelf at the bar. There was a familiar and satisfying scent of wood and aged leather to welcome him.

Luke waved to the bartender, Lorenzo, who he’d hired to keep on top of the bar whilst he was away. His eyes scanned the bar, catching sight of a few regulars, before landing on a woman he’d not seen sat in his bar before. The woman was familiar to Luke, but he was caught off guard as his eyes fell upon her blonde hair and calm, blue eyes.

As their eyes met, he noticed a sense of release cross over her. “Karen?” He greeted, his voice rumbling slightly as he sat in the seat opposite. Even seated, he managed to tower over her. “What are you doing here?”

Karen ran her finger around the rim of her glass as she considered her answer. Some expression of concern etched into her eyes as she glanced back up. “I wanted to check in, see how you were doing.” Although her intentions were good, her lies were unconvincing. It was clear as she spoke that her answer was tiny in comparison to the real reason – a reason quickly dug out from her with a raised eyebrow. “Something’s up with Matt, at the moment.”

“Your blind friend?” Luke asked, leaning back into his seat with a curious glance in his eye. Karen nodded, before Luke called over for a drink for them both.

“We got the firm up and running again – and he’s been super helpful with cases. But there’ve been some days he just goes AWOL. No sign at home, at work, at church, at the gym.” She began to explain with some desperation in her voice, watching as the glass clinked against the table and the drink swirled around for a moment. She smiled up towards Lorenzo and thanked him, before turning her attention back towards Luke, who glanced with curiosity. “I was wondering, with this whole Fisk-Dillard policy, if you’ve noticed any sign of another vigilante in Harlem?”

The question was naïve, and simply uttering it made Karen feel stupid for coming out to ask. But the hope that resonated in her eyes explained it enough. She was seeking an answer, from anywhere, no matter how far-fetched it seemed. Luke felt guilty as he answered – knowing for a fact that Harlem had only benefitted from his intervention.

“Maybe, Matt is just struggling.” Luke suggested, shrugging his shoulders. “The man who made his life hell died. He got out of prison not too long ago, and is adjusting back to a normal life.”

“He did lose quite a few people…” Karen’s voice was quiet and contemplative. “But I can’t help but shake a feeling that he’s involved in something. I mean, every time he’s away, something happens. There was that attack on the apartments in Washington when he was away the other night. Then this morning there was the terror attack?”

“I think you’re looking for answers in places there aren’t any.” Luke replied with some sense of rationality. His low voice was soothing to Karen’s growing panic that spread through her mind. “The world is crazy at the moment – but frankly, a blind vigilante involved in stuff over in Washington – the other side of the country – just isn’t it.”

“Okay, but Jessica hasn’t been around for weeks.” Karen interjected with panic toning her voice. “And yet Trish isn’t concerned at all. Two ‘enhanced’ people go missing during an outbreak of enhanced people? That terror attack last night was on the ATCU, the people set up to track down and deal with people who are enhanced.”

“So, what – Jessica and Matt are terrorists?”

“No!” Karen exclaimed passionately, frustration in her voice as Luke was missing her point. “But something is happening. And if Matt isn’t around Harlem when he’s disappearing, then where is he?”

“No clue, but they’ve reported another masked hero in Queens.” Karen frowned with frustration brimming in her eyes. Luke smirked and shrugged his shoulders, “Matt needs time to process everything. Same with Jessica. If they’re missing for days but come back safely, then all is fine.”

***

Uptown in Harlem, Misty and Brigid moved through the bustling streets of Harlem with some urgency. They’d left the barbershop with intel that burned straight from the press, needing an instant focus as they headed towards the car. Brigid resisted the need for coffee, whilst Misty drew her phone from her pocket, clasping it in her hand with a strong and firm grasp.

“We had some intel on a gunrunner called Marcus collecting debts for Cottonmouth not too long ago. Hopefully he’s not learnt his lesson.” Misty stated, sliding into the drivers seat of the car. Brigid watched from across the car, smirking slightly as she pulled herself into the passenger seat.

“I suppose the more evidence we have, the better our chances against Cottonmouth.” Brigid commented, glancing towards her partner as the engine began to rev.

Their conversation relating to Marcus and his history continued during their drive through the maze of Harlem’s streets. The light from the falling sun in dusk beginning to cast long shadows over the city. The hair was cold, and the glow of streetlamps began to flicker and lighten up the streets.

Once arriving at the street Marcus was known for prowling, the pair parked up in a shadowed area and began to wander the street by foot. Their eyes analysed everything. Every door, every person, every business, every window. They sceptically stared at anything that was caught in the glow of the falling sun or the dim streetlamps.

Their attention was promptly drawn to a commotion in a dark alleyway, swamped between two towering buildings. A woman was backed against a wall, her eyes visible from far away, as they stared forward wide in fear. Looming over her was a thin man, whose life running from police had training to fight had benefitted him in some regards to his weight.

Threatening the woman with a deep growling voice, the man pointed his long bony finger in her face. “I ain’t got time lady. Cough up or it’s gonna get ugly.” In his other hand he brandished a handgun, which rattled as he threw around his hand.

“NYPD!” Misty shouted, brandishing her own pistol from her side. Her eyes narrowed, opened wide and fixed. “Drop the damn weapon and step away from the woman, Marcus.” Her delivery of the man’s name was powerful and authoritative. It put the young man in his place almost immediately, prompting not rebuttal or challenge as her eye stared stern.

Marcus, for a moment, seemed to resist as his hand tightened, but her voice prompted him to comply. The gun clattered against the ground, kicking it over to Misty, who left it by her foot for a moment.

Brigid secured the weapon with a glove firmly clasped to her hand, keeping his prints on it if needed. Meanwhile Misty approached the woman, comforting her as she stared back to Marcus. “What kind of fool waves around a gun in an alleyway, like we’re in a 1970s comic?”

“I was just tryna collect some debts. The lady won’t pay up.” Marcus struggled against the handcuffs that slotted around his wrists as Brigid seized him. Misty glanced to the woman, reassuring her not to worry, before stepping forward to Marcus.

“I don’t care what you were trying to do. Last thing you do is threaten a woman in a dark alleyway with a gun.” Resonating with strictness, her voice was sharp and angry, matching the flare in her eyes. “Detective, take him to the car. I’ll be over in a minute.” Brigid didn’t question Misty, having seen the ferociousness in her voice already set Marcus in order.

Once freed from the alleyway, Misty led the woman into the glow of the street. After asking what the commotion was for, she nodded her head and tears swarmed her cheeks as her eyes began to well. “My brother… he borrowed money from Cottonmouth. He can’t pay it right now, because he’s using it to pay my mama’s medical. So they came after me.” She clutched onto Misty with a tight grip, leaving her speechless for a moment. “Donte… Donte made records. He was scared – he only borrowed the money in desperation.”

“Smart move. Don’t suppose there’s anything that links back to Cottonmouth directly.”

“A contract.” She admitted hesitantly. “My brother always watched judge shows – saw that they needed contracts for anything. So he drafted one up, got Cottonmouth to sign it.”

The woman was swift in delivering the contract and files to Misty, her hands trembling as she handed it over. Her tear-stained cheeks had dried slightly by now. “Thank you, honestly.” Misty’s voice was filled with gratitude.

“Got something?” Brigid asked as Misty arrived back to the car, looking over with a raised eyebrow.

“Enough evidence to link Cottonmouth to this. But not enough.” Misty’s eyes glimmered with determination. As the pair sat back into the car, starting up the engine, they heard the quiet voice of Marcus.

“Listen. Go easy on me.” He stated, an ace in his sleeve. “You’re looking into Chico’s death, right? Suspicious it’s an inside job. I know the cops on the payroll. I’ll talk if you hold off.”

Chapter Text

Grant Ward’s plan differed in this universe – his approach to combatting SHIELD was through an attack on the ATCU. By framing SHIELD for the attack, they reaped the benefits but saw none of the consequences. The onslaught of explosions and death were the perfect breeding ground for negative fervour against SHIELD to prosper.

As the ATCU facility faced an horrific attack, all evidence from the scene of the crime pointed towards SHIELD. Attackers with SHIELD ID, technology imprinted with SHIELD software. But the most damning piece of evidence, unbeknownst to HYDRA, was the sighting of a SHIELD operative – Jessica Jones.

***

Coulson was apprehensive as he waited. He’d established a small table on the rooftop of a building that overlooked Washington. He’d spotted his own troops on standby, whilst he could also see the ATCU’s gearing for action. Amongst the cold nip in the gentle breeze, he could sense something happening – something sowed against him.

Nevertheless, he continued to sip away at the drink on the table, waiting until he heard the creak of the metal door. The only entrance and exit from the building, putting him and Rosalind Price in quite a dangerous position should either be betrayed. Yet, much like he had hoped, Rosalind had a slither of trust still remaining. She still had some optimism that Coulson could explain himself, despite instructions that it was a naïve consideration.

Rosalind’s eyes were caught just underneath her dark bob of hair. Despite their seriousness, there was intrigue woven into her gaze. An anticipation and curiosity. They stared across towards Coulson, who’s nervousness transpired in his glance towards her.

“I must be a fool for meeting with the ATCU’s biggest enemy.” Resonating in her voice was a sense of disbelief, still not certain that SHIELD had any part in the attack. She knew Coulson well enough to know that it wasn’t quite his style.

“Shame, I thought you’d scheduled an appointment with me instead.” Coulson grinned, taking another sip of his drink, before pushing himself out of his seat. He emerged from the shade of the tree that had been planted behind him, standing with an gentle smile across his face.

“You’ve got a lot of explaining to do.” Rosalind commented, smirking back at Coulson. He raised an eyebrow, knowing exactly what she was referring to, but adamant that it was no order of his. “The attack on the ATCU facility. Happened on the exact day that you were meant to come and see it. Evidence linked it to SHIELD, and it’s days after an Inhuman incursion you didn’t report.” Her eyebrow raised as she sat down in one of the seats, crossing her seats as she watched Coulson lower himself downwards.

“I know you’re desperately looking for an angle, but it wasn’t SHIELD.”

“There’s no desperation, Coulson.” She replied quickly, almost seeming as though she’d rehearsed every retort possible. Planned out the whole conversation, cautiously plotted out her responses. “The ATCU has enough evidence to hunt SHIELD down. Enough evidence to throw it into the public.”

“But you haven’t.”

“Exactly, I haven’t. I’ve got pressure from every angle possible, and I’ve got radio silence from some of my best people. But I doubt we’re seeing the truth. SHIELD is too cloak and dagger to attack our base like this, however I am not of the popular opinion. People remember the helecarriers and the chaos. Not everybody knows Phil Coulson.” Rosalind’s voice held some sense of reassuring pride. Her high esteem of Coulson toned her words, whilst her face expressed her feelings of distrust.

Leaning forward, Coulson’s eyes were intense and focused. They analysed everything about Rosalind, scouring for any sign of a lie residing behind her expression. “I appreciate that you haven’t jumped to conclusions, Rosalind. But you have to see we’ve been framed. This attack was a setup. SHIELD had nothing to do with it.” Defensively, Coulson’s voice was almost pleading in response.

Sighing and dropping her shoulders, Rosalind stare held on Coulson. “How can you be so sure? The evidence, Coulson. We’ve got SHIELD IDs and SHIELD tech across the scene. It’s damning.”

“Exactly! It’s too damning,” Coulson’s defensiveness was loud and swift. “You really think my agents would be this sloppy? All of this evidence is just too convenient. Somebody wanted us to take the fall.”

Although Rosalind wanted nothing more than to believe Coulson’s counter, absorbing his words with a softness touching her expression, she couldn’t help but feel a case mount against him. She reached into her pocket, assuring Coulson of the safety, before revealing a small pad. Switching on the screen and navigating through some files, she stumbled across security footage.

The image itself was almost pristine, capturing the SHIELD agents swarming the base. They each wore face gear, but their affiliation to SHIELD was nothing less than damning. However, leading the charge was a powerful woman, who managed to break through walls and smash through doors with a mere punch.

As the woman turned around, the footage paused. It stopped with perfect timing, capturing the woman’s face as she had turned around to check on the other attackers.

“Jessica Jones – recently poached for SHIELD. The woman sat by Hunter’s side when we first met.” Coulson felt his gut punched, winded and speechless, unsure how he was going to amend the situation he’d found himself in. Rosalind had the most damning piece of evidence to hand – an actual operative for SHIELD.

Coulson glanced up towards Rosalind, his mind busy as it connected the pieces to the story he was seeing woven before him. “Jones is undercover.” He explained, knowing it sounded to be a flimsy excuse. “She intercepted some intel for us – intel important about a plan HYDRA has.” Coulson explained.

Although in her hand was damning evidence, and the concept behind Coulson’s explanation seemed easily implausible, Rosalind felt hope. She sighed, trying to ensure that every base was covered with questions. “HYDRA’s gone, Coulson. What would they even gain from this?”

“Your data, Inhumans and a blow to our relationship. They’re building resources to pit us against each other. Sowing distrust.” Coulson was diplomatic and brief, a certainty teeming in his voice. “If I can contact Jessica, have her confirm this. Get some intel for you.”

“You don’t understand. Everything is traceable back to SHIELD. The people above me aren’t happy and they won’t quit until-” Rosalind paused.

Her words halted and her eyes glared back across towards Coulson with almost a glint of pure terror etched into her eyes.

Her earpiece buzzed, which Coulson couldn’t make sense, but he promptly saw it’s affects moments later. Rosalind jolted forward. Her arms pushed Coulson down to the floor, covered by a flowerbed as the air was pierced by a bullet, shooting down against the ground with no pre-warning.

“Roz – what’s going on?” Coulson asked, panicked as he stared up towards her, feeling her full weight pressing him down.

“Orders from above it sounds like.” Her words were panicked, as she hauled herself to the ground and instructed Coulson follow her lead.

“Orders from above?” Coulson asked, following as she crawled against the ground. “That was an assassination attempt.”

“I didn’t call for it, so somebody else must have.” Rosalind threw open the exit, watching as Coulson crawled in and threw himself against the wall. He panted as he pulled himself to his feet, uncertain how to respond to the attempt on his life.

Rosalind sealed the door behind her, before hurrying down the first flight of stairs. She threw her head down the centre, her gaze staring down a pit which almost looked endless. The sounds of the city bustling below were sharply cut off.

“Stairwell’s safe at the moment. I checked the schematics of the building beforehand – there’s a maintenance tunnel beneath us. Leads to a nearby parking garage.” Her eyes darted up towards Coulson, glancing through the simply lit stairwell as Coulson nodded and wiped the sweat that patterned his brow.

Hurrying down the stairwell, Coulson watched Rosalind carefully. His thoughts swirled around the information which had just been presented to him, ruptured by the assassination attempt. He couldn’t help but notice the panic in Rosalind’s face, an expression of powerlessness – something he recognised from when he had been outranked in SHIELD.

“Phil, listen to me.” Rosalind panted through her words, her eyes glaring up to Coulson as they continued darting downwards. “It looks like my superiors won’t stop until they have your head on a pike. I don’t know why – but we need to get to safety quickly.” Coulson halted, his eyes glaring down. As hers met with his, she paused too, confused for a moment. “What? Why have you stopped?”

“This is all very convenient, isn’t it?” Coulson remarked, irritated. “You want inside SHIELD. Take us down from the inside, pretending to be a noble hero to get in easily. Let me tell you – I’ve faced a lot worse than this.” Coulson was blunt and powerful, striding down the steps with his fixed on her. Rosalind grumbled and sighed, reaching for her ear and plucking out her earpiece. She called Coulson over, cleaning it in the time it took him to arrive, before burying it into his ear.

“… on the windows. Close the perimeter of the building.”  A voice stated with roaring instructions. “Price intervened in the operation, arrest her on sight.” It stated, repeating the instruction. The incitation was bold and clear, paralysing Coulson as he stared back towards her, guild riddling his expression.

“I’m on the run now, too, Phil. Orders have changed without my warning.”

“I’ll get an extraction team out to us – where’s the parking garage?”

***

“If this isn’t reason enough not to trust the ATCU, then I don’t know what is.” Daisy commented, as they gathered together in their operations room. Her eyes darted around the group, glancing to Mack for support in her argument, whilst also jumping to Bobbi and Hunter and Matt and Fitz and Simmons and May. The crowded room was filled with uncertain glances, each of them unsure how to even respond to the situation that had been relayed to them.

“I knew Coulson should’ve gone with more of us.” May commented, looking at the small team of snipers dispatched to deal with the situation if anything turned as bad as it did.

“He trusts Price.” Mack stated in defence. “I don’t like the ATCU at the best of times, but I have some faith in his judgement.” Glancing around, his eyes fixed on each of them, setting out his argument clearly. The room was filled with the people Coulson trusted and recruited. Scientists, fighters, strategists. “We need to listen to what she has to say for herself.”

“Mack, the ATCU just tried to kill Coulson.” Daisy argued, some tension in her voice.

“We sent Hunter to kill Ward after he betrayed us. We can’t judge the ATCU from any different standard than our own.”

“To be fair, Ward did betray us and then took people hostage and then nearly killed them. The ATCU just reckon we tried to blow up a base, without any evidence.” Hunter remarked, interrupting the argument. Daisy nodded her head, as Mack glanced between them.

Matt shook his head, a visible distraction for those arguing. “You’re looking at this wrong. Because if Price is right – and her superiors have called for Coulson to be killed, then we’re looking at something beyond terror attacks. There’s something, or someone, commanding them now.”

“Right after HYDRA’s attacked their base too.” Hunter remarked, once again drawing the attention to him. “Couldn’t be them, could it?”

“Wouldn’t surprise me. HYDRA’s always had a way of spearheading government organisations.” Bobbi responded nonchalantly. She shrugged her shoulders as she massaged her knee, sitting down on the couch for a moment of comfort.

“Ward had an operation planned.” May interjected, quietly speaking with sternness to her words and eyes. “All of this is connected; we just don’t know how yet. But HYDRA has to be in the centre of it all. Have we had any word from Jessica?” May swivelled her head around to Fitz, whose attention was buried in something else completely. Jerking his head up to the expected response, he shook his head and murmured a reply, focusing back down on the screen of the data-pad.

“I knew we shouldn’t have put her on that mission.” Mack grumbled in frustration, glancing around the room, his eyes glancing between the various agents who hadn’t put up any argument against Coulson’s case. “Now the ATCU have a target on her back, and she’s not even trained enough.”

“She’s a Private Investigator, Mack.” Matt commented, breaking the awkward silence which simmered around them. “Interception and information gathering is her speciality. Not to mention, her and me are the only ones HYDRA don’t know are part of SHIELD.”

“Which puts a target on your back too.” Mack was blunt in replying. His swift reply was promptly met with arguments by Fitz and Daisy, who commented on Matt’s heroic involvement in saving the Inhumans and Simmons. “Look, new recruits are good. But we’re not being sensible here. We have HYDRA and the ATCU both aiming guns at us – literally in Coulson’s case.”

“Ward isn’t as big a threat as we think he is. But until we understand his plans, we can’t take him out.” May remarked, matching Mack’s tone. “Trust me. Like everybody else in this room, Ward being alive and plotting against us pisses me off. But he knows about Operation Pandora – he knows where Jessica’s child is. And we should be supporting Jessica’s fight. The same as we did with Fitz and the same as we are with Daisy. We’re a team, each trying to prevent these strands from connecting.”

May’s words were powerful and commanding, bringing the discussion to a halt as everybody glanced towards one another. There was a non-verbal agreement amongst them all that the discussion had no more need for talking. It had reached it’s relevant peak, and now resonated amongst the group as they waited for the Quinjet to arrive back to the base.

As Matt returned to his room, his mind busily working a case he and Foggy were working on back home, he was promptly interrupted. He could hear the busy churning of activity churn across the base, the soldiers, clicking guns, training in the gym, the clattering in the lab. 

Fitz’ voice was shy and hesitant as it called him over. “You can hear really well, right? Like heartbeats.”

“It’s how I do what I do.” Matt remarked, feeling some comfort in being able to be so openly free about his heroism. Fitz smiled awkwardly, feeling as though the question had been stupid.

“When we saved Jemma – did you hear another heartbeat?” Fitz asked sheepishly. “Or sense someone else?” He edged closer to more specififty, but something held him back.

Matt cast his mind back to the alien planet. The shrieking of the sandstorm and the heavier drag down to the ground. He recalled the struggle and the rope burn. But, to some fortune of Fitz, he did remember a second heartbeat. He recalled it beating against the chest of a man, whose stench was drowned out by the foul emptiness of the planet.

Then he remembered reaching Jemma, and hearing the heartbeat vanish. The sludge of a body, the collapse against the ground.

“Whoever it was, they didn’t survive.” Matt answered, feeling guilt as he replied. Fitz’ heartbeat was almost unreadable. He could make out a slither of contradicting feelings of guilt and happiness.

“Are you certain?”

“Their heart stopped, and they collapsed to the ground, Fitz. I don’t think they would’ve survived that.” Matt snapped slightly, struggling to read Fitz’ emotion regarding the news.

“Thank you, Matt.” Fitz patted him on the shoulder, before turning around back on the spot and circling back into the laboratory. Matt waited for a moment, listening as Fitz returned to his computer and began to run a series of simulations. Nothing appeared to proceed his question, leaving Matt puzzled as to why he was even asked.

***

As Coulson and Rosalind emerged from the Quinjet, wandering down the rear ramp, they were met with cautious stares. SHIELD was distrustful of the ATCU, and whilst it Coulson was a reassuring sight, they couldn’t help but feel some level of concern.

Tension was thick as it hung in the air, the hangar almost falling silent from a moment as they disembarked from the jet. Coulson made a remark about the situation, a grin painting his face as he humoured himself, but Rosalind’s attention was elsewhere. She was too panicked by the situation, trying to make sense of the who, what and why.

Led through the corridors of SHIELD, Rosalind found the base to be far homier than that of the ATCU. From a quick glance, the ATCU represented the modern playing field of government operations and espionage, whilst the underground, brick wall panelling and glass-windows peering into recreational, scientific and leisure rooms, all served to echo the 1950s approach.

Rosalind was quiet and apprehensive, a feeling noticed immediately by Matt, who sat in the shadows in the corner. He didn’t want to participate necessarily, feeling the meeting to be more orientated around the original members of SHIELD, but he still wanted to be present to hear the discussion for himself.

Coulson glanced around the wooden table which rested between them. His eyes darted around, fixing on the curious and cautious faces of Daisy, Mack, May, Fitz, Simmons, Hunter and Bobbi. They expressed their relief that Coulson survived, but his mind was far too focused on other matters.

“Before we begin, I need to show Rosalind evidence that Jessica was dispatched for an undercover operation at HYDRA.” His eyes met with Hunter first, who groaned and rolled his eyes. Hunter was handed a small pad, and accessed his own profile. A list of information flickered upon it, whilst the most prevalent piece that showed up was how he was barred from field duty for the near future after engaging in an operation called off by the Director.

In clicking the operation, Coulson revealed to Rosalind Jessica’s own file. How she was recruited and what she was currently investigating, displaying information of Operation Pandora and how it had effected her. “See, Roz, Jessica has every reason to not agree with HYDRA. And is currently in the middle of investigating it.” Once Rosalind’s own eyes confirmed the information, she handed it back to Coulson and sighed.

“Roz?” Daisy asked, almost annoyed. Yet Coulson only shot her a look to disbar the comments she clearly wanted to make.

Glancing up, Rosalind felt the room’s attention fix on her. They waited in anticipation for answers – anything to explain why Coulson had been at the centre of an assassination attempt. “Listen – I believe my superiors and the rest of the ATCU is acting independently. If the ATCU was attacked by HYDRA, then I fear we’re dealing with a secret takeover.” Rosalind felt embarrassed as she sheepishly voiced her concerns. Often, she wielded power in rooms like this – but now she had no role. She’d seemingly been overruled in the ATCU, and the agents before her had distrust buried deep into their eyes.

Mack crossed his arms, his eyebrows furrowed with some fury. “How deep could it go? You’ve been our only contact at the ATCU – an organisation we already don’t trust, and now you’re telling us it’s been compromised.” There was a resonating agreement amongst the group, as their eyes turned from Mack to Rosalind within moments. Their quiet murmurs softened as Rosalind prepared an answer.

“My fear is that it’s fairly deep, and been happening for a while. The man who sees the Inhuman Rehabilitation programme hasn’t made contact in a few days – and now an entire base has been attacked.”

“What’s his name?” Fitz asked curiously, interjecting with his eyes eagerly involved. “We could track him down, check for any leads.”

“Gideon,” She answered dismissively, not expecting the weight of the words that followed after. “Surname, Malick.”

Silence fell upon the room like a brick through glass. The room waited in the shattered remains of the conversation, such an experience that even piqued Matt’s attention despite his cluelessness why. Daisy’s eyes widened in shock as they met with Rosalind, flicking to Coulson for a response, only finding shock to cover his face.

“Malick?” Anger crossed her as she stared at Rosalind. “We’ve been trusting Gideon Malick with Inhuman containment and protection?” Daisy shook her head, unsure how to express the raging anger that crossed her. Her eyes met with Rosalind, finding an obliviousness in her expression.

“Gideon Malick is a HYDRA agent – must have slipped through our radar.” Coulson explained, his eyes glancing towards Fitz and Simmons. “Try to see if you can track Malick down – his involvement spells trouble regardless of his plans.”

“Hold on,” Rosalind interjected, watching as Coulson leapt into the role of the Director of SHIELD. “I thought HYDRA attacked the ATCU. Now you’re saying they were already in it. Even though they’re being rebuilt by this Grant Ward?” Rosalind glanced around, her mind busy trying to piece together the deception that had snuck through her organisation without her even knowing. “Surely they’d have attacked our main base – that’s what Malick knows about most.”

“Malick would never concede control to Ward.” Coulson remarked, his mind also trying to make sense of the situation. The room fell into a contemplative quiet. Only the buzzing and humming of screens filled the background noise.

Matt’s voice cut through the confusion of Rosalind and the resonating tension. His voice was firm and calm. “Could be a faction war.” Matt remarked, wandering towards them. “Fisk almost had one in Hell’s Kitchen. A war between the different gangs, different leaders fighting for control. Perhaps that’s what is happening. This Malick must be old money – a HYDRA legacy – while Ward is new blood.”

“Makes sense.” Nodding his head, Hunter’s voice attracted the attention of the room. “HYDRA’s always been known to eat it’s own in a power vacuum.”

“So, the theory here is, we’re working with two different HYDRAs?” May wondered, stoically glancing around as she made sense of their discussion. “Ward would be willing to do anything to get to the top. Playing the long-game here might be the answer.”

“That doesn’t explain why Malick went missing, though.” Rosalind interjected, her eyes dancing around the group as the discussion distanced itself away from the spark of why she was there. “And it also doesn’t explain how, or why, the orders in my organisation have been changed.”

“No, it doesn’t.” Coulson remarked, before turning around to look at Rosalind entirely. “But, Roz, we ne need to strip this down to the core. HYDRA is surrounding the ATCU, so we track down one side, while we have Jessica on the other. Find out what they want and how they’ve got people inside. We’re alone in this fight now. Nobody to trust.”

Coulson’s words lingered in the air, with the gravity of the situation ahead of them made explicitly clear.

As the group dispersed, Matt felt a conflict rise within himself.

His mind was torn between the unravelling reveal before him, and the image of Foggy working alone. He considered the teamwork that bristled in the heart of SHIELD, which contradicted the loneliness felt by Foggy and Karen back at home.

Then he considered the war. The war that continued to rage in the underground of Hell’s Kitchen. The Hand, unchallenged by Stick and Elektra as they laid in their graves. He thought of Stick’s words. Not fighting alone meant that he also needed to help his friends too.

Matt promptly hurried across to Coulson as their meeting concluded and the fled out from the room. “Coulson,” he started, some seriousness toning his voice. “I need to head back home for a few days.”

“Is everything alright, Matt?” With a raised eyebrow, Coulson glanced towards him, concern countering his serious tone.

“I just think I need to make sure everything’s alright back home. And you lot seem like you have things in order.” Matt was hesitant and quiet, vague in his explanation. “I’ll be back as soon as I can be, but there are people back home who need me too.”

As Matt wandered out, granted permission to take short leave, his eyes met with Daisy’s, who eyes were curious. “Everything okay?”

“Just… I need to check back home. Foggy and Karen need my help as much as you do.”

Chapter Text

I often wonder what my legacy would be if I died. I’ve wandered through the world unseen, escaped the torture of my parents with little of myself left. My words were my power.

Now I realise my legacy is a voice. A voice rooted in the mind of my victims. A parasite, leeching onto the anger and the rage and the pain. I believe they call it trauma, but I like to think better of myself. I would like to think that I never die. Perhaps this fucked up virus I carry means I never die – that a part of me is around forever. Consuming everybody. Slowly.

Maybe, my parents found a fault in that religion of yours Matthew. Perhaps there’s more than Heaven and Hell. Perhaps a devil like me is never-dying – cruelly immortal. Perhaps evil can never die.

***

“Bless me Father, for I have sinned.” Matt’s voice was quiet. It was pained and ashamed, as he huddled in a confessional booth. Light barely reached through the decorated holes of the panel walls. The smell of wood stained the air, tainted by Matt’s sins that simmered on the edge of his tongue. “It has been three months since my last confession – I had tried to stick to routine and visit regularly, but life got in the way.”

“It often has a way of doing that.” The voice was Father Lantom was reassuring and calming. It carried a power. A divine tone underlying his words. The silence that followed was an invitation for Matt to continue, which he took apprehensively.

Guilt was bitter as Matt swallowed. His deep sigh followed, only filling the dawning silence. “I’ve tried to save people, father. I’ve tried to do what is right. I saved people from monsters and portals and dealt with all these strange issues that I’ve never had to deal with before. But the worst part is, I cannot escape Kilgrave. He’s there. Always.” There was a slight raise of panic that filled Matt’s voice. Feeling the sensation of Kilgrave’s lingering words torment him.

The very thought evoked dark memories that he’d kept away. The smell of blood, the smashing of his batons, the punches and kicks and the endless violence. Then he remembered the deaths Kilgrave called for. The pain and the soulless evil that embodied that hollowed man.

“A soul like Kilgrave would be tested before the eyes of the Lord, and I can only assume in his mighty wisdom, that a man so corrupt like Kilgrave would never make it near the gates of Heaven. And in knowing that, I doubt he’d ever be permitted to walk the Earth again. So in that, I can assure you Kilgrave is gone.” Father Lantom’s wisdom was powerful, with his pause being clearly a moment for him to think further. “After the manipulation that you have faced, it’s natural to feel lost. After your grief, you might wonder where you’re destined to be. But God’s plan is crafted with your best interests in mind, and his mercy is infinite.”

The vivid memories of Kilgrave’s death flashed in Matt’s mind at the mention of mercy. There was an irony in the connection, as he recalled the graphic scene. “I-” Matt stuttered. The words he was about to say were foul tasting to the tongue. “I witnessed Fisk murder Kilgrave. I was there to hear Kilgrave being beaten and I wanted to stop it. But I couldn’t. I was too late. That or part of me wanted it to happen…”

There was a quiet sigh from Father Lantom’s side. It was barely audible to a normal ear, but it rang in Matt’s ears. It sounded like a struggle. “Often, when we endure violence, or witness it, vengeance and justice may blur together. We might even look at the bible to justify our harm unto others who have harmed us – ‘Eye for an Eye’. But the Bible does not intend for that to be taught. In fact, originally that text sought out justice and compensation. I cannot speak for this potential desire to harm Kilgrave, but I can tell you that vengeance is not a method to fixing the problems of the world. Your strength, is the ability to discern between the two.”

“But what about the people in the world who cannot be defeated.” Matt’s mind flashed once again. Blood staining his hands. The warm corpses of Elektra and Stick in his arms. Matt’s voice cracked, grief tasing sour. “The people who killed Elektra and Stick – they’re still out there. Killing and hurting people – doing exactly what they did that day.” Matt’s mind replayed the image of their deaths. The hundreds of different ways it could have been prevented. The hundreds of different ways that never happened.

Silence fell, before Father Lantom took a deep breath. “Loss is a heavy burden for us all. But their deaths are not your fault. You did what you could.”

“But it wasn’t enough!” Although the voice belonged to Matt, the rage behind it was alien. It was attributed to the parasitic voice of Kilgrave, which eavesdropped on the confessional, whispering in his ears.

Matt could’ve avoided that night, fought another way. He could’ve killed Kilgrave there. He could’ve reasoned with the Hand. In fact, Matt could’ve stopped Kilgrave a long time ago. He could’ve warned Elektra before she went in – fought Kilgrave at the hospital.

He could’ve never met Kilgrave in the first place.

“How…” Matt stuttered, reeling from the surge of anger which had seized him without warning. “How do I find my way back? Make amends for my wrongs?”

“You start by forgiving yourself.” Father Lantom stated, his voice both firm and gentle. “Redemption is not a destination. You seek it every day, in every action. You trust God and his plan. You live safe in the knowledge that you are within His grace. But most importantly, you accept that vengeance is not yours to seek. Punishment is not yours to dish out. The only power to punish man, is God’s.”

***

Matt sat quietly in his office. He sat by a window, listening to the city below roar with life. The taxis, the people, the traffic lights, the cats, the shops. Lights flickering, floorboards creaking, meetings negotiated. The warmth of the sunlight rested against his face, calming him as he reflected upon the days that had passed.

Some comforted was found in the new life he had started. Both SHIELD and Nelson and Murdock proved to be new forces for good in a life that had been so despaired by misery. Even though he had taken a break from the life of an Agent, he was at least glad to know powers sought the goodness of the world.

Matt’s silence was disturbed by a creaking board behind him. The clacking of a leather shoe which squeaked as it pushed down and creased in movement. The breath of a man, cold and unnerving. “Matthew.” It whispered, the British-tone unmistakable.  

As Matt swung around in a violent swing, his ears caught the sound of the door opening. His attention was drawn away from the vanishing breath and footstep of Kilgrave’s ghost, and instead to Karen. He paused, confused by the ghost’s presence. It hadn’t escaped him, even after this longevity. He wondered if he’d ever be rid of the man.

“Sorry,” Karen spoke, quietly interrupting Matt’s recollection of himself. “We’ve got a new client in Queens. Foggy was dealing with it, but he’s not in yet. I was hoping you’d help me.”

“Queens?” Matt retorted, puzzled for a moment, dismissing the distance. “What do you need?”

Karen wandered into the room and dropped herself into her seat. “He says he’s got some new evidence for his case. Wants it picked up before ‘they’ take it.”

“Who are ‘They’?” Matt asked, completely clueless about the situation that Karen and Foggy were investigating. Sighing, Karen stared back across Matt. He could hear a spike in her heartbeat, an urge to shout or express some anger, but it was kept down.

“Robert Coleman, the client, has powers. He believes the government are going to take him away – or he’s being chased down. I don’t know, the details are sketchy because it’s Foggy’s case, but... please?” Karen’s voice was calm and soothing.

A type of soothing Matt hadn’t felt in a long time – in fact, his mind shot back through his memories in search for any instance he felt calm like this in somebody else’s presence. Perhaps when alongside the agents at SHIELD, feeling safe beside Daisy who knew the mixture of being orphaned and having powers.

Matt agreed, nodding his head and pushing himself up from his seat. He sensed Karen lingering by the doorway, watching as he grabbed his cane and jacket. He paused and turned his attention to her, his face directed at hers, despite the fact he didn’t need to see her to read her expression.

A quiet chuckle followed the lingering silence. Karen’s sudden spike of anger in her heartbeat had dissipated, as she stared forward across towards Matt. “This suits you.” She commented, wanting only to express that thought, before swivelling around and wandering to her desk. Admiring Matt, she watched as he went about his business, as he collected some files and a briefcase and began to wander out.

The journey to Queens was gentle. Travelling by taxi proved to be smoother than Quinjet, a thought that flashed in Matt’s mind as he the car shot through the streets. He admired the waters and the buildings, each preparing for Christmas as it approached them.

The driver’s attention drifted between the road and the TrishTalk segment which rang from the radio. Trish was discussing something that Matt paid little attention to, somewhat comforted to hear her radio show in New York, however.

Eventually, Matt arrived upon a street made up of rows upon rows of apartments. Some pizza shops caught his nose, and convenience stores rang with bells and clinking glasses, but Matt’s attention was on the apartment he was being dropped off to.

Although, as Matt began to approach the building, his ears tuned to a blaring ringing of sirens. Counting them, his mind was busy ticking away – two sirens were joined by another pair and another. He could hear the civilian cars struggling to make way, whilst further down the streets, he heard the thranging of a spike strip thrown across the street.

Matt paused, listening and intrigued. He then tuned his ears to another car. This one was siren-less, but hurtling at a reckless speed nonetheless. He heard two guns rattling around inside, whilst four voice shouted and cheered in a ranting parade of chaos.

Preparing himself, Matt ran his hand down his cane. Readied himself to detach the cane into two batons. His ears pricked to the sound of a small line of dry washing that dangled from a nearby window – ready to strip one from the bar and wrap it around his face.

As the car hurtled down the street, it’s tires popped against the spikes. The sound was quick and incidental, but the sound of the disappointed men bellowed through towards Matt.

Although, while he prepared his involvement, his ears twinged. A noise of thwipping webs strung through the air. They vibrated and echoed with each shot, making strange ringing noises as it carried along. His ears followed the thwips along, finding a paced breathing, a pounding heartbeat. A muttering voice of a teenager.

“Left over here – I think. Oh, wait, lamppost, don’t want to do that again.” The voice muttered quietly. Matt froze, listened in confusion, before the boy swung around the corner. Grabbing hold of a flailing scarf, Matt raced around the corner. His identity barely covered, he hurried to the scene of the crime. Four police officers wielding guns and four criminals with the same amount – whilst a swinging teenager threw himself in the middle.

Yet, as Matt turned the corner, all was fine. The criminals were thrust towards the car, trapped by thick web-like material which pushed them against the car. The guns seeped through and collapsed against the ground. Meanwhile, the police paused, their eyes glanced up towards the teenager, who situated himself on a fire escape.

“Looks like you’ve got yourselves in a sticky situation fellas!” The boy shouted out, his smile audible even despite Matt’s blindness and the mask that covered his face. Before anybody could raise the questions clearly lingering in their minds.

The ordeal had Matt puzzled, as he stood motionless. The police ushered him away, clearing the scene of the crime, but Matt’s attention was fixed elsewhere. His ears tuned to the streets, searching for the teenager who swept in to save the day. Any clue as to who the boy was, or how he’d got the abilities he had.

Slowly wandering back to the apartments, Matt’s mind fuzzed with curiosity. His attention flickered between everything else besides the case, fascinated by what he had just witnessed. The utter randomness of the situation had caught him off guard, but more frustratingly, he couldn’t trace down the hero. They had escaped without any clear line of trackability.

He paused at the door, reconfiguring his attention. He knew the swinging teenager hero warranted his attention, but the legal case bound in a file in his briefcase was the primary focus of the moment. He took a deep breath, ignored the chaos and the sirens and the shouting, and buzzed into the apartment.

The staircase was dingy and cold, illuminated by an off-yellow hue. The ceramic tiles were cracked or damp in the ridges, whilst the door itself was barely locked, held together by some duct tape and a cracked hinge. Matt frowned, feeling some guilt as he began his ascension up the stairs – realising the lift was broken as it rattled incessantly.

Eventually, after two flights of stairs, Matt arrived at the client’s door. His ears tuned inside to hear an anxious man, his heartbeat pounding and his voice quietly muttering to himself. He could hear a low static from the television, and a buzzing from a computer monitor.

He waited, collecting himself for a moment. He had to return himself fully to Matt Murdock, the daytime identity who sought justice through law.

The door swung open without warning, as a sweating man panted as he looked across Matt. Panic shot through him as he abruptly shouted at Matt. “Who are you? Where’s Foggy? Please, don’t-” He cried, interrupted as Matt handed over a card which read Nelson and Murdock. The man, presumably Robert Coleman, seemed to calm down for a moment. He glanced back to Matt, now realising the vision impairment he had and the name etched across his briefcase. “Oh… I’m so sorry, Mr Murdock…”

“Call me Matt.” He smiled, a reassuring smile which hid away the confusion and overwhelmingness of his abrupt outburst at the door. Robert welcomed Matt in, his embarrassment clear from Matt’s voice. “I was reading over the case details on the way over. You’re suing a medical facility, but the details in here are a bit vague.”

Matt’s cane clacked against a metal shelf, with books and notepad which sat upon it, stacked in heavy piles. Robert’s apartment was trapped in a state of well-lived-in and dingy. Above were plastic pipes, which rattled as a ferret excitedly ran about with insane joy.

“They-” The man stuttered. He adjusted his glasses and sat down on the edge of his bed, sinking into it for a moment before anxiously playing with the sleeves of his sweater. Matt pretended to search for a seat, finding it as promptly as he expected a normal blind person to – despite having used his senses before. “The people who did experiments on me don’t have any official name. But they did things to me – in the name of helping me.”

“I read about the accident…” Matt muttered, expressing his wishes for Robert’s recovery as he rifled through the briefcase. Matt glanced back up, smiling with a slither of doubt toning his face. “The work this case needs… it’s beyond us. This is P.I work – you need to track down a whole company, and its staff, and evidence if they’ve kept it.”

“No – no – that’s why I have this!” The man ducked beneath his bed and rattled around, eventually bringing up a file. “I looked around for a P.I of ages and nobody was any good. Most doubted my story – but then I stumbled across a woman, back over in Hell’s Kitchen. She was a nurse, a lovely woman. Checked the database for me.” Robert handed over the file, anxiously and excitedly. “The only name written anywhere was a company called IGH – but that doesn’t exist. Nothing out there traces them back.”

Matt sighed, finding the pause to be too long for his silence. “I can’t see any of this helping.”

“But the name on the listing was James Dench – a name rarely used at the hospital. One of the few other times was a blood test this year.” Matt raised his eyebrow, the silence carrying an anticipation. “This is the man from the footage!” Excitedly, Robert thrust the photograph towards Matt, feeling a sense of idiocy as his eyes fell upon Matt’s glasses. He caught his own embarrassment in his reflection.

Matt smiled politely. “Is there any evidence linking this ‘James’ to this IGH?”

“Not yet – but this is all a step. Because this man isn’t James Dench – when he came back for another blood test 3 months later, I followed him. Tracked him down to a house – a house bought, not rented, by a man called Miklos Zazlov. A doctor – trained medically in Russia, but has never had a job. According to his LinkdIn at least.”

Nodding his head, Matt considered what he could do with the information that Robert had presented him. His mind considered the details, toyed with the routes he could go. It was pretty obvious that the main approach to finding out more information was by tracking Zazlov himself – the only flaw to that plan being Matt’s troubled history if hunting down Russians who had preferred to keep low profiles.

“I’ll see what I can do.” Matt smiled, holding out his hand for the file, before stashing it away in his briefcase. Shaking Robert’s hand, Matt began to wander towards the door, before stopping and turning around. “The report said you had superspeed – is that true?”

“Only when I’m scared, yeah.” Robert anxiously admitted. “But it’s not a gift. It’s not like these Inhumans on the news. It’s painful. It hurts like death. And the nightmares I wake up from…” Matt’s mind cast him back to the years of his youth. When he himself felt the terror of his powers in his youth. “It sounds stupid – you probably don’t believe me bu-”

“Throw that glass at me.” Matt interjected, nodding his head towards an empty glass. He could hear the slither of a water drop sliding down from the rim down to the base. Robert glanced confused, his head swivelled around towards the glass, promptly questioning how Matt could’ve known it was there. “Just, throw it.” Matt’s instruction were clear and powerful.

Robert approached the glass and held it apprehensively. His eyes darted between the glass and Matt, catching his reflection in the glass still. Matt remained still, stood across the room, facing a slightly off direction. Matt called out for Robert to do it, to which he complied.

He winced as it left his hand. He didn’t watch it hurtle through the air, keeping in the few droplets of water. He didn’t catch the sight of the sun cascading against it. He waited. Shattering glass was about to sound any moment, the piercing sound of one of his cheap glasses resonating through the apartment. Yet, as the anxiety continued, he didn’t hear it.

His eyes opened and he dropped his hands from his ears, catching sight of Matt holding it mid-air. Not a sign of fracture or crack, almost as though he had perfectly caught it.

“But how-”

“Your neighbour upstairs – mid thirties, right? Long hair, a kind of flowery perfume?”

“Wait, how do you-”

“And across the hall you have two neighbours. A man and a woman, but the apartment has the scent of three people.”

“One of them is having an affair but I don’t know which.” Robert stated, staring puzzled. His eyes jumped between Matt, the glass and the door. Attempting to fathom the onslaught of strange abilities he had just witnessed. “How do-”

“Let’s just say, I believe you, Robert.” Matt smiled. He nodded his head reassuringly, before placing the glass down, precisely upon a coaster. As he began to approach the door once again, with the briefcase and cane firmly clasped in his hand, he swivelled back around to Robert. Now he was free from the burden of the meeting with Robert, his mind was free to roam the other branching thoughts that riddled. The burning question on his mind being, “What’s with the web guy?”

Robert looked puzzled for a moment, a silence following. Matt’s face filled with awkwardness, feeling the puzzled tension in the air, before a spark hit Robert’s mind. “Oh, Spiderman?” Robert answered, his face expressing a smile – probably one of the few smiles a man as anxious as him has grinned in a long time. “He only came around in the last few days. Blue and red suit, looks pretty make-shift… If my powers weren’t so dependent on fear…”

“Sometimes powers can be a curse. Sometimes, they can be a blessing.” Matt’s words stemmed from experience. He considered the lives his senses had saved, but then he considered the pain he went through. Living with the knowledge that he could hear and sense practically anything.

***

You’re not talking about me, are you Matthew? Thinking my powers are my curse? When really, the ability to have the world at my fingertips, is the closest anybody will ever have to true agency. Of course, we live in a world where nothing is decided by ourselves. The Hand, HYDRA, me. The world itself is riddled with people scrambling for power, all of us wanting to be God.

***

Matt returned to the office, smiling at Karen as she greeted him, before his ears caught the sound of Foggy’s footsteps. He excitedly darted out from his office, a flutter of footsteps all indicating to Matt that something was worth listening to.

“Spiderman?” Foggy laughed joyously as he shouted back to Matt. “You’re sent to meet with a guy who has super speed, and you end up bumping into Spiderman?” Foggy chuckled heavily.

“So you’ve met the Whizzer and Spiderman, anybody else you’ve met?” Karen joked, matching Foggy’s heavy smirk.

“The original Ant Man.” Matt remarked, his voice toned in such a way that he kept the truth vague. His mind recalled the attempted prison break from Hank Pym – feeling the absolute terror that changing size had brought him.

“Quite the knack for heroes.” Karen commented.

“Well we’re friends with a woman with super strength and a man with unbreakable skin, so we’re in the running too.”

Matt refrained from gloating, although he knew the perfect response to the smug confidence that etched Foggy’s face. “The Whizzer case is actually something serious.” Matt responded, his tone juxtaposing the previous chuckles and jokes. “And with everything happening in the world, we really need to protect this guy.”

“It just seems like everybody has superpowers nowadays. The Avengers destroyed half the city-” Foggy crossed over to the window and pointed down. “They’re still rebuilding that building over there and it’s been 3 years – and now everybody wants to join them. I hate Fisk, but his anti-vigilante idea might be a good deterrent.” Matt and Karen diverted frustrated expressions towards Foggy.

“I don’t think Fisk is doing it for the right reasons though, is he?” Karen snapped.

“Raises the question why Mariah is involved too.” Matt commented with disdain, hanging up his briefcase and cane, navigating himself towards a cup of coffee.

“She’s part of the Stokes family. Crime family back in the 80s and 90s.” Foggy commented, raising his voice so Matt could hear in the small side-kitchen. Karen glanced over confused. “What? I was interested too. This stuff isn’t difficult to find – just the police never have proof they’re doing things now.”

“One case at a time.” Matt remarked, returning back to the office. Grinning before he took a sip, feeling the scolding bitter taste burn the tip of his tongue slightly. “Coleman first.” Matt placed down the cup and searched through his briefcase, retrieving the brown dossier he’d been handed at Robert’s apartment. He handed it over to Foggy and Karen, sipping his drink once again and listening as they looked through the information. “A lead on the mysterious facility. A Dr Zazlov. Thought we should check it out.”

“Perfect!” Karen remarked, clutching it from Foggy’s hand.

“We might need that.” Foggy laughed nervously, not sure how to respond.

“I spent nine months in Jessica’s place - I know my way around investigating. You want information on Zazlov, you’ll get it. Go and work on legal stuff.” Karen dismissed, jumping up from her seat and wandering across the room towards her jacket.

Chapter Text

As the lives of the ‘Defenders’ diverge, so do the lives of their enemies. Matt’s return back to Hell’s Kitchen is fraught with his life in law, whilst the life of Luke Cage is destined to clash with old faces.

Looking back through the web of time, Luke Cage’s life was a lot less invincible than his skin. In fact, his life was shattered to pieces by his own Half-Brother. The life of Willis Strycker was tainted by his father, who rejected to accept him as a son. For all intents and purposes, Willis was an illegitimate product of the Lucas family – whilst Carl Lucas bore the admiration of his father.

Years later, in the days the Carl Lucas was trained militarily and drafted himself into the police, he was hit by a revenge plot by Willis. The fall from grace as he faced time for a stolen car, led Willis to seek revenge. A framed murder case but Carl Lucas into Seagate Prison and it seemed the end of that.

Willis went on to seed his criminal influence across the city of New York. Shedding his skin and being reborn as Diamondback, which each scale being a new rising opportunity for his syndicate of crime.

Now, as the timeline changes, Diamondback’s visit to Hell’s Kitchen is not rooted in revenge for the brother he believed to have died. Instead, it was revenge against the people who were cutting him from a deal.

***

Willis Stryker watched the atrium of Harlem’s Paradise with satisfaction. There was something pleasing to his ego, watching the crowds of goodlooking people dancing and drinking. Flashing lights of blue and purple and a warm orange. Good vibes resonating the air, as simple folk enjoyed the luxuries that was essentially paying money his way.

Because whilst Harlem’s Paradise was the property of Cornell Stokes, Cornell Stokes was under Diamondback’s supervision. He’d even had a man on the inside watching their every move, a man whose mind was calculating and scheming and cautious. Who never missed a detail, his eyes kept fixed under a black pair of sunglasses.

Shades stood in the corner, waiting. He was silent, his glasses making the dark oak room even darker. Cornell and Mariah sat in the brown leather couches, their eyes watching Diamondback with caution and scepticism. Their ears tuned out the music from down below, only feeling the bass from the speakers pounding through the air.

“Mariah,” Diamondback began, grinning as he turned back around, “James 3:16 says that ‘For where jealousy and selfish ambition exist, there will be disorder and every vile practice.’ And here you are, slithering into power and making deals with the Devil. You really think betraying me and negotiating with Fisk is gonna lead to anything worth your while? Nah – your actions have damned you.” His tone was calm, even though his bulging eyes told of rage and fury. “Although, I hadn’t expected you to betray me, Cornell. Cutting me out like I’m nothing but chaff to be thrown to the wind. Don’t think you can try and rise up against me like you’re Cain in the fields.”

Clenching his fist, Cornell shook his head. “This isn’t about betrayal. It’s business. It’s survival. We got a bulletproof vigilante breathing down our necks. One of our cops in New Orleans. Guns and cash locked up.”

“Business?” Diamondback sneered, chuckling gently but cruelly. “No, no. This is more than business, Cornell. This is about respect and loyalty. ‘For whatever one sows, that will he also reap.’ In making deals with Fisk, you’ve sown the seeds of your betrayal, so reap what you’ve sown.”

“What do you mean?” Cornell commented carefully, suspiciously. His eyes tracked Diamondback, unwavering in his stare. He caught Mariah doing the same thing in the corner of his eyes, his attention on Diamondback drowning out the sounds of heavy base and soothing singing from down below.

“Making your deal with Fisk has stopped you sending as much money my way. And I can’t be having my stock building up with no demand. But, fortunately for you, we got a buyer.” Diamondback’s smile was unnervingly unmoving. It didn’t change nor flicker. It was kept in statis, frozen on his face. Cornell and Mariah waited, feeling that more information lingered on the tip of his tongue. They were certain, correctly, that the pause was kept in case they wanted to interrupt. “But it’s gonna cost getting them where they need to go. So, with all that money you lost me out on, you’re going to do it for free.”

Cornell let out a rebellious laugh. “For free? Do I look like a charity?” A question which only provoked an eerie widening to Diamondback’s smile. He sat himself down on the arm of the couch, his eye stared forward, fixed and locked on Cornell’s. Calmness enveloped his face still.

“Charity? Nobody said nothing about charity, Cornell. It’s repayment.” Diamondback’s face grew slightly tainted with anger. “Or do you want to repay another way, because your pride has led you to this moment and you’re on the brink of your own destruction.”

“I’m sure there’s a way we can make this work without the threats.” Mariah commented, shifting uncomfortably. Her eyes were cautious, her voice nervous underneath a façade of composure. Now Diamondback shifted his eyes back to Mariah, rage seething through his smiling teeth.

“No threats, Mariah. Just a promised alternative. You’re at the crossroad of your deceits. This is your repayment, before we work out a way to fix things back up.”

“And you think you can waltz back in here and dictate terms to me?” Cornell’s fists and jaws clenched as a sign of his bubbling anger. Diamondback’s eyes widened once again as his head snapped back around to him. “This is my territory. My empire.”

“Your empire exits ‘cos I allow it. If you see yourself as King, then remember that back in the days when kings and queens ruled, they only had power because God chose them. So if you’re King, what does that make me?”

“My god.” Mariah sighed, incidentally answering his question. “Will you two stop? Don’t you men ever get tired of this headbutting all the time?” Mariah growled, shaking her head. “We made a deal with Fisk to help us deal with a situation that was not manageable. You don’t like that deal because it cost you some stuff. So now we’re moving the shipment. Understood.”

“Now I see the results of fancy education and the streets.” Diamondback grinned, flicking his eyes between the pair. “After all, nobody is filthier than a politician. So, Cornell, you gonna listen to your cousin’s wisdom and move this shipment?”

Cornell’s eyes darted back to Shades, holding a mix of anger and realisation in his eyes. The expression reflected back at him, and he grumbled with frustration. “Fine,” Cornell spat our his confirmation, his words lined with aggravated defiance. “But this ain’t the end.”

“The wicked flee when no one pursues, but the righteous are bold as a lion.” Diamondback quote, grinning as he dusted himself off and stood to his feet. His eyes darted back to Cornell. “I trust you like a brother Cornell. More than my own brother. So don’t betray that trust.”

“And where are you going now?” Mariah questioned, an attitude spiking her voice.

Diamond back paused. He spun around, almost on the spot, his bulging eyes filled with rage as he felt himself under question. Something ticked away in his mind. A reminder of the days he was questioned about that red Chevrolet corvette.

“Not that you need to know – but I’ve got a meeting with Fisk myself. See who the real Kingpin is in this city.” With his smile returned, with a colder sneer, Diamondback continued on his way. The door clicked as it shut itself, the blaring music reaching inside for a brief amount of time.

Mariah turned to her cousin and shook her head with bristling rage. Yet, before her tongue let free the words that tipped the edge of them, she caught a glance of Shades. He remained motionless. He was a turret in the corner. A statue in Diamondback’s honour. A tool for constant espionage.

“This is real shit, Cornell.” Mariah finally remarked furiously, turning her head to her cousin. “Dealing with Fisk publicly is one thing, but we gotta ease up on the arms and men. You’re too high up the food chain to be gun running.”

Cornell didn’t respond. He didn’t move. Sat frozen, his mind plagued him with memories of Mama Mabel. Images of Uncle Pete dying at his hands, his hands clutched around a gun. It always came back to those damn guns, he thought.

“Maybe it’s time I show these amateurs how it’s done.” Cornell remarked, his anger settling. A calm after a storm.

***

Silver moonlight broke through the dark clouds of the night and into the large windows of Fisk’s penthouse. The penthouse itself was illuminated with a sharp bright glow of white lights. The scene itself reminded Fisk of purity and simplicity, the very purity and simplicity he was attempting to extrapolate across the city of New York.

The penthouse was filled with the comforting smell of a homemade curry. The sauce permeating the walls, the rice still resting in the pan. Smell of garlic and chicken lingering in the air. Pots still cluttered the kitchen sides, not yet washed as the meal itself was carefully plastered across the plates of Wilson and Vanessa, who sat at the dinner table.

Between them was a comfortable silence. The fostering kind, which indicated the pure happiness and love and comfort two people can feel in each other’s company. Bliss, unaltered by the tainted world which rested beyond the large windows, and illuminated bity moonlight, street lamps and light bulbs glaring through windows. Reassuring happiness.

Vanessa smiled across towards Wilson. She admired the simplicity of his actions. His organised and minimalist approach to life. The meal was her doing, which was clear as the mess and amount was no way in the natural way of Wilson. And whilst changes to such routine would usually drive Wilson crazy, there was something soothing about Vanessa’s demeanour that it practically went unnoticed.

“How have things been lately?” She inquired cautiously, knowing Wilson’s preference of keeping the issues of ‘work’ away from her.

“Some obstacles in our way – but nothing that has been too obstructive.”

“I don’t think any obstacles could obstruct you.” Vanessa remarked, a comforting smile resting along her face. Wilson smiled back, the notion of her confidence bringing him a joy he’d barely understood before. “You’ve faced off Kilgrave, ninjas, a vigilante – and that’s all in the past year. You’re… you’re so resilient.”

“Only because I have to be.” Wilson spoke gravely, trying to ignore the flashes of trauma in his mind.

“No – your resilience is not something forced from you, Wilson.” Vanessa replied firmly, placing her knife and fork down for a moment. She looked at him sincerely. “Your resilience is part of you. It isn’t learned. It isn’t a product. It is you. You fight for what is best, even if not everybody shares your vision.” Her hand stretched across the table and she smiled reassuringly. Confidently and lovingly.

As they finished their meals and stared at the heaps of washing up, Wilson resisted the instinctive urge to clean and order. Vanessa’s hand lingered in Wilson’s, bringing him to ignore the chaos and the challenge from the outside world. He focused on the serene moment had the luxury of experiencing now, hand in hand with he woman he loved.

Disrupting the quiet of the penthouse was an unexpected knock at the door. Wilson paused, his hand unclasped from Vanessa’s, already a sign that something was wrong. She watched, concerned as Wilson’s brow furrowed and he adjusted his tie.

Cautiously, but quickly, Wilson approached the door and swung it open.

An unfamiliar man stood at the door, grinning slightly. His bulging eyes signalled crazy, but his dress sense signalled formality. Wilson paused, raised his eyebrow, and clenched his fist.

“Mr Fisk,” the man started, smirking as he stared upwards. “Nice to finally meet you – The name’s Diamondback.” The man held out his hand to shake Fisk’s, who cautiously obliged.

“Who exactly are you?” Fisk asked, looking at the man’s restrained fury beneath his smug confidence.

“Friends of the folk of Harlem. Cornell and I had a good thing going. But I’ve found some unsettling news.” Fisk remained cautious, welcoming him in and shutting the doors behind him. Diamondback glanced around, impressed. Although it was sparce and plain, it was expensive. It wasn’t lavish or luxurious, but everything about it screamed money. “So this is where the white criminals live.” He chuckled, nodding his head.

“Wilson, who’s this?” Vanessa asked, not yet noticed by Diamondback until she spoke.

“Willis Stryker. But I go by Diamondback. Everybody got a codename round here. Devil of Hell’s Kitchen, the Masked Vigilante, Cottonmouth, Kingpin. Nobody wanna be themselves, but they all wanna do good by themselves and their family.”

“What’s in a name?”

“A good name is to be chosen rather than great riches.” Diamondback replied, grinning as he glared forward. “Course, the bible wasn’t written in 21^st Century America. Years of slavery, capitalism and demonisation leaves that statement still a little untrue. We’re defined by names – which is why, I assume, you hid yours.” His attention turned to Wilson, the unchanging smile resting upon his face.

“I preferred discretion in my life, Mr Stryker. As, I’m sure, you do too.” Fisk replied calmly and composed. “Perhaps it is best we talk in my office.” Fisk nodded back to Vanessa, signalling her to remain behind, whilst a concerned frown was written from his face as he stared stern and focused.

Diamondback wandered up the stairs, following Fisk who led him into his office. The walls were soundproof, insulated and casting their discussion in private. Diamondback glanced around at the screens, impressed and fascinated. An instinct still burning from a very young age was the temptation to touch just about everything. But he maintained that instinct.

“Please,” Wilson smiled, “Take a seat.” His offer, disguised as a demand, was rejected. Diamondback stood still, defiantly refusing to sit and opting to stand instead. Wilson glanced over curiously and carefully. “Intimidation will not work on me, Mr Stryker. I have faced the devil before.”

Diamondback’s face was unmoved. “An angel came down from Heaven. He threw Satan into the Abyss. ‘Locked and sealed it over him, to keep him from deceiving the nations anymore until the thousand years were ended. After that, he must be set free for a short time. Revelations, 20:3. The Devil’s been locked away, but what you saw was his sin still around. Don’t think that just because you chased away one sinner, that you’re free from the rest of sin in the world.”

Wilson observed the man’s face. He reached into a lower draw and revealed a copy of the bible himself. It was worn and well read, but nothing around Wilson appeared to bear the mark of a Christian. He was simply well versed, well cultured. He knew the words and the teachings, even if none of it left  a mark on him.

“The devils we refer to are different. One is a figure in your faith. A metaphorical, or metaphysical or supernatural figure.” Fisk seized the bible and held it firmly, sitting in his seat with his chin held high and pride in his eyes. “The other is a man with powers. Powers of that allow him to bear those seven deadly sins. He embraced lust, wrath, sloth, gluttony, greed, envy and pride. He wreaked havoc on people’s lives.”

“Am I supposed to feel sorry for you, Wilson? Pity the struggles of a white man in his penthouse?” Diamondback asked cruelly, disregarding the slither of terror that was evidently struck in Wilson’s heart. He rubbed his hand against the back of the chair, as his glaring eyes fixed on Fisk before him.

“No.” Fisk responded quickly and bluntly. His eyes matching the glare. “I want you to understand that the last man who threatened me in my home, is now sat in that urn!” Fisk’s voice grew louder and angrier, before pointing towards a shelf. It had a series of mementos, but the most evident was a purple glossy urn.

Diamondback’s head reeled back from the urn and glared back towards Fisk. A grin etched across his face. Cruel still.  Staring down, there was a glimmer of sadistic murderous glee glimmering in Diamondback’s eyes. Fisk felt uncertain, trying his best to decipher the man’s intentions as he stood across from them.

“Yet you got fear running through this town. You got Cornell Stokes and Mariah Dillard running round in fear, supplying guns and drugs and men to my customers. You ever read the 48 Laws of Power, Wilson? Law 42. Strike the Shepard and the Sheep will follow.”

Diamondback chuckled reaching into the inner lining of his pocket. Fisk watched carefully. His eyes watching the man with unwavering observation. Every detail, every action. Diamondback reeled his hand from his pocket to reveal merely his hand, fashioned into a gun. A childish game. “You’re cutting me out, Fisk. You deals with the Stokes – I don’t accept it.”

“My arrangements with Cornell and Mariah Dillard are for the betterment of their – and consequently your – enterprise. A strife against vigilantes and injustice.” Fisk was calm, despite the charade of the gun fashioned against him and the threatening stare of Diamondback, whose eyes were cold windows to an even colder soul.

“Spare me the corporate. I’ve been in the game long enough to know when I’m being sidelined.”

Fisk paused. His eyes glared up, now slightly angered by the continuance of Diamondback’s pesistance. His voice dropped, lowered to a dangerous whisper. “I’ve been in the game long enough to know when somebody is overstepping their bounds, Mr Stryker. If you wish to make an enemy of me, then know I have enough power to make your life miserable.”

“Yeah?” Diamondback’s rage was contained within a scoff. “While I got enough power here to make that sweet Vanessa’s life miserable. ‘Cos trust me, Wilson, grief is worse than anything. And it will eat her up.” There was a twinge to Fisk’s expression at the mention of Vanessa. Primal rage, but it was restrained by a sensibility.

What drove Fisk into a true echo of his brutish nature was the abrupt firing of two bullets. Concealed behind the chair, clutched in Diamondback’s left hand, was a small pistol. Two bullets pierced through the air, spiralling away and bursting through the air with a deadly precision.

Who bullets hit both sides of his torso. One aimed for his heart, the over for his shoulder.

Yet, the bullets didn’t drill through his heart and shoulder. No agony was brought about, nor unbearable pain.

Instead, the two bullets ricocheted off his suit. Unscathed, unmarked. The bullets bounced against the wall and hurtled towards the floor, having lost all velocity as it collapsed to the floor with a whimpering defeat.

Diamondback stared confused, unable to fire for somewhere else in enough time. He watched Fisk hurtle across the room, almost with stronger force and faster speed than the bullet fired just moments ago. Fisk leapt over the table, his gripping hands locked onto the lapel of Diamondback’s jacket, before pinning him against a wall. The shelf rocked, the urn of Kilgrave trembled – the devil enjoying the wrath in the room.

“Many have tried, Mr Stryker.” He ripped the gun from Diamondback’s hand and threw him to the other side of the room, crashing against the floor. Diamondback winced, struggling back to his feet as he watched the hulking man approach him once again. “But your good book preaches something very important in our world.”

“Eye for an eye?” Diamondback interrupted, grinning as dodged out of the way of a strike by Fisk. The hulking brute panted and growled, spinning around and fixing his eyes on the man. Fisk lunged forward, his hands throwing Diamondback down, facing only his smug gleaming face. “You think you’re untouchable? Fancy bulletproof vests? ‘Pride goes before destruction, a haughty spirit before a fall’.”

Fisk hesitated. His fists were ready to pound the man’s face in, or batter him as some retribution for his actions. But he considered the teaching. He was proud in that moment. Proud of his ability. Proud of his intelligence. Proud of his aspirations.

“You seem to have forgotten Law 19, Mr Stryker. Know who you're dealing with – do not offend the wrong person.” Fisk stood to his feet. He dusted off his jacket, and cracked his knuckles, staring down towards the man before taking a step back. Holding out his hand, he seized Diamondback’s hand and dragged him to his feet. “You should leave tonight, knowing you’ve made a mistake. Knowing that I will set in motion everything to destroy you. But if I took pleasure in seeking justice now, then the police would have a different man to identify.”

“This ain’t over, Fisk.” Diamondback hissed as he spoke. “God will come with vengeance.”

“Send him my way, I would have a lot to ask the man who lets filth and corruption like you poison our waters.” Fisk watched as Stryker staggered out of the office, following him back out onto the balcony and watching him scamper to the ground. Fisk grinned, catching Vanessa’s eyes who glanced up with curious caution. A slither of pride resonated in her eyes.

“Everything okay?” Vanessa asked once the doors had shut and Fisk stood at the bottom of the stairs. He approached her, glancing up towards the expensive hung painting. He stared at it proudly.

“People play with faith. Never truly committing to it.” Fisk stared, quietly. His attention trapped with the rabbit in the snowstorm.

“I’ve never asked…” Vannessa was quiet, her inquisitive tone catching Fisk’s attention, wanting to pay the woman he loved with full attention. “Do you have a faith?”

Fisk smiled calmly. Reassuringly and glistening with love. “You.” He uttered, seizing her hand for a moment, holding it firmly.

***

As Diamondback strolled back through the streets of Hell’s Kitchen, plotting in his mind a search for revenge, he was frozen by a glimpse of a face. The yellow glow of the lamps caught his face, curiously glancing across the street.

The streets themselves were quiet. Barely any cars drove by and people were few and far between, which was one reason why Diamondback curiously glanced towards one of the men who emerged from a small bar. That, and the clinking glasses that sounded as he emerged clasping onto a tied black bag.

The man whore a shirt, unaffected by the chill of the night. He was caught under a streetlamp, capturing his face in full detail. From his dark skin and bulking muscles, to his shaven head and pristine goatee. At first, Diamondback paid him little attention, until he caught his eyes. There was no doubting from his face shape and his body shape and those eyes that he was anybody else.

From afar, the man that had caught Diamondback’s attention noticed the stranger staring at him, but ignored it regardless. He continued back into the bar, the opening of the door letting the sound of clinking glasses and calm, smooth and soothing music reach into the streets for a moment.

“Carl…” Diamondback muttered, grinning angrily. He stormed across the street, reaching into his pocket for his pistol, before remembering where it was. Discarded across the floor of Wilson Fisk’s office. He shook his head for a moment, before continuing anyway.

Throwing open the door, his eyes met with Carl Lucas. The ringing bell above the door had summoned attention upon himself, but only the man tending the bar paid any long-lasting attention. Carl stared at him, puzzled. Confused. Nervous.

“Willis?”

“Carl.” Diamondback answered, the name sending a shiver down Luke’s spine. It was a memory of a life that died in prison. Diamondback continued back across the bar, the mention of the different name had erupted some curious glanced, but most people sitting around preferred to keep their attention to themselves. “Last I heard, you were busy elsewhere.”

“Something happened.” Luke stated, his eyes cautiously glancing around the bar, not wanting to speak openly. Diamondback nodded his head, his mind busy calculating. “I think we should probably talk in private. Some changes since we last saw each other.”

“I bet.” Diamondback’s face gleamed with his notorious smile. He agreed, his mind now busy ticking away with a strategy.

Luke led Diamondback to his apartment, opened the door and welcomed him in. His hands trembled slightly, his memory casting back to the court hearing. The trial that persecuted his best friend, incarcerating him without any consequence to Luke himself.

There was small discussion that followed, as Luke wandered into the kitchen. Luke asked him about why he was in Hell’s Kitchen, why he was so far from Savannah. But Diamondback’s inattention placed him somewhere else. His motuh answered vaguely whilst his eyes observed the kitchen.

Hanging on the wall were a set of kitchen knives. Pristinely sharp.

Diamondback grinned, approaching them.

“I don’t go by Carl anymore.”

Diamondback’s attention whipped back to him. “Oh? Why not?”

“When I got out of Seagate… something happened… something happened to me.” Luke was hesitant to explain the situation, his mind trying to comprehend various methods he could make sense of the events that led him to become the man he was. “It’s better if I show you – pass me one of those knives by you.” Luke pointed towards the knives on the wall.

Life had been unforgiving to Diamondback. It had taught him violence and distrust and hatred. It had showed him that thinking and acting quick was sometimes best. But it had also coloured his view on certain strategies. He’d always approached things productively, carefully and with an open mind. But this night, he had been betrayed and defeated, and was faced with the root cause of it.

Leaning over and taking the knife, he was apprehensive. Not out of fear of Luke’s plans – to him, Carl was always too weak to hurt anybody. But instead, he was apprehensive about his own thoughts.

Clouded by rage and revenge and weakness, he broke law 28. Enter action with boldness.

Diamondback lunged forward with the knife, thrusting it forward against the man’s stomach. He had expected the knife to slice through flesh, intertwining with the goo and the flesh and the blood inside. But in one swell swoop, the knife shattered and snapped. It was forced against an unbreak object, impenetrable skin.

Luke pushed Diamondback away and stared in confusion. “Willis?”

“What- what the fuck?” Diamondback questioned, staggering as he felt a sharp piece of the knife scrap his hand, and he only found the handle and half a shattered silver knife edge in his hand. “Bulletproof suits and impenetrable skin… What the fuck is wrong with this city?”

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Trying to find some goddamn asshole to suffer for the shit they’ve against me.” Luke froze, his eyes gazed over. His expression read with shame and guilt, a true and honest expression. “Bulletproof…” Diamondback muttered, staring back at Luke in shock. He stormed out from the kitchen and towards the front door, his eyes catching sight of a grey hoodie, blasted with bullet holes, yet no sign of any blood at the rimmed edges.

Chapter Text

In many universes, the criminal world of New York City is brutal. It is relentless and powerful, the strength of fighters never wavering. Yet, with constant shifts and turns, the only people to ever truly feel stability is those on tops, relying on the consistency of those below. Fortunately, for the likes of Diamondback and Wilson Fisk, their trust hinges on competent people.

But competency also allows room for strategy. A notion that often comes to haunt those who strive for power with no thought to consequence.

***

Cornell sat alone by his piano. His fingers ran along the keys, pressing them down gently and listening to the sound reverberate through the office. Under the sunlight, the piano’s pristine dark oak glistened, brining Cornell back to the memories of his childhood. As he sat, learning the piano and embracing his skills, whilst his aunt and uncle squabbled over the power of his talent.

The door to the office opened, alerting Cornell with a shut of the door and the footsteps of Shades. Turning his head around, he saw the man who had so often lingered in the darkness and the corners. His eyes enveloped behind black sunglasses, their emotion shielded by the dark lenses. Donning a dark suit, the man adjusted his tie and glided through the room without a word uttered.

“Something to say?” Cornell’s frustration was evoked by the mere presence of the man. A reminder of his partnership with Diamondback. Cornell stared at Shades, catching a glimpse of the man’s eyes beneath the blackness of the sunglasses.

Shades cleared his throat, disrupting the silence he held for a moment. Once his words had finally spoke, he held a quiet tone. Stoic and stern, Shades was like a gust of air, passing through the room gently but noticeably. “You let him walk all over you, Cornell.” He stated, cautiously staring from his glasses. Cornell paused, he glanced around with a slither of curiosity snow digging into his face. “Diamondback’s a snake, and you? You let him bite.”

Cornell was taken aback. Stood before him was the man Diamondback sent to watch over him, a loyal spy for Diamondback. Now there was disloyalty, betrayal. A traitor. The real snake. “What would you suggest? Because dealing with Stryker isn’t about fighting for the top spot. It’s not competing for pride. It’s tactics. Caution.”

“Caution doesn’t mean rolling over and showing your belly.” Shades replied, stepping forward with a calm demeanour cutting through the room. “Diamondback doesn’t respect you and he never will. A man like him is cutting you out slowly, as we speak.”

“And what are you doing?” Cornell asked suspiciously.

“You should show Diamondback that you’re not about letting him walk all over you.” His lips curled into a smirk, whilst his sunglasses hid the glint of determination that glistened in his eyes. Power, or a thirst for it, expressed itself across his face. “Make the move before he does.”

Cornell scoffed. An angry response, fuelled by frustration by the whole situation, but more so by the sheer prospect of trying to overtake Diamondback. “A man like Diamondback ain’t a man you easily take out of power – and nor am I.” He added sceptically, eyeing Shades up and down cautiously.

“You don’t need to kill a snake to tell it you’re more dangerous. You show it – and every other animal around – that you got a message. You’re in power.” His voice was now hushed. A whisper permeated through the room in conspiracy.

“But then Diamondback will just want to come hit us back.”

“Not if your message is powerful enough.” Shades replied instantly, so fast it was almost a whiplash. Cornell’s eyes narrowed, suspicion and curiosity warring within him. “That gun shipment – you’re due to send it off tomorrow. But I know where it’s stored tonight. Hit it hard and make Diamondback that you ain’t his bitch. You’re a player in this game.” His voice was now deadly serious. It was stripped down to a traitorous core.

Cornell considered it. His mind raced, weighing the consequences against the potential benefits. Before him was a new layer to the battle. Now, proposed to him was not a repayment, but a moment for betrayal. He knew the relationship he and Diamondback had – he knew the danger of breaking that relationship.

But then, in his mind, an image of Mama Mabel flashed in his mind. The lessons she taught him. The violence on the street, the protection of Harlem and his own family. Once again, he saw Uncle Pete stood before him. Begging, pleading. The gun trembling in his hand, Mama Mabel urging him to listen to her instructions.

Sometimes the toughest decisions seem impossible. But taking action is vital. For his family, for his city.

Nodding his head slowly, with grim determination, he coldly stated, “I’m in.” His eyes glared back at his own reflection in the sunglasses, catching the smirk upon Shades’ face. Shades scoffed, fixed his sleeves and headed out of the room without another word uttered.

Cornell sat still. His hand rang back along the keys, a tune resonating in his mind. He glanced towards the painting of Biggie upon the wall. His eyes dancing across the red, before landing on the crown. That was his.

King of Harlem.

***

“… In other news, Wilson Fisk has publicly called for action against another vigilante in New York City today. Fisk claims that Willis Stryker, who refers to himself commonly as Diamondback, attacked him in his own home last night. Reasons for this are currently unknown, but evidence was handed into the police, substantial enough to be followed by their own search for information regarding Stryker.”

The car’s radio was quiet under the sleet of rain that pelted the metal roof above Cornell. He staked out in an unmarked car, sat silently besides a looming warehouse, his head held down low and his eyes out wide. Nobody had been around the site, and it was almost abandoned looking. It was a tall silhouette in the dark, cast with silver light against the backdrop of a foreboding night sky. The walls were covered in graffiti and shattered glass panes.

As the radio moved onto the next segment, Cornell’s eyes caught onto a figure. Unphased by the pouring rain, which splattered the floor into drenched tarmac and soaking puddles. The figure wore a large coat, his face barely visible in the dark, only clear by a reflection of lamplight against the shades on his face.

Cornell, now noticing that Shades had finally arrived, pushed open the car door. Once again, as he felt the cold air of the night bite his skin, he examined the scene once again. No sign of any guards, no sign of any security. No sign of anything.

Approaching the warehouse, following Shades, Cornell heaved open the creaking heavy door. It clanged as the hinges creaked, and inside it reveal a vast and empty space. It was untouched, not even squatters had made past attempts to make use of the space. All there was, was dirt and junk and splinters of glass.

The whole scene was alarming, a clear strike against his instincts which screamed about the obscurity before him. He continued, pursuing the case.

“Shades?” He called out, only hearing his voice echo. It bounced around the room, adding to the useless junk that littered the ground. His feet pulled him through, until he watched Shades’ figure re-appear. The figure was slow moving, cautious. Even in the cover of darkness, Shades’ smile was clear. “What’s going on? I thought the gun shipment was here.” Cornell’s voice was lined with suspicion, his eyes now aware of everything.

Shades stopped. He stood only a few feet away, grinning. “It was.” He answered slyly, calculatedly. “But then I told Diamondback about your plans.”

“My plan?” Cornell’s voice raised slightly, angry at the suggestion. “Look – Stryker’s out in the open now. We need to be talking strategy, not playing hide and seek.” Only now, as he sensed the betrayal in Shades’ voice, did his eyes catch sight of the pistol clasped firmly in his hand. Obscured under a protruding shadow, it almost seemed difficult to see, but there was no doubting that his hand was wrapped around the handle of a pistol. Cornell stared forward, hoping to ignore it, tactically thinking his way around it.

“You’ve lost yourself, Cornell.” Shades disregarded Cornell’s comment, wandering forward. Illuminating his face under the silver of the moonlight, Shades reached into his pocket and drew gloves onto his hands. Black and leather. “Desperation has got you, and you didn’t even know the man causing it. You got to a point of betrayal. In the end, you really were a snake, Cottonmouth.”

The name angered Cornell, who reached into his pocket and clasped onto a pistol. “What do you mean? Who’s the man causing it?” Now they were locked in sights of each other. Prepared to fire, cautious to watch the other go first. Shades showed no wavering, as his eyes stared down the barrel of the gun. It could very well go off, but worse had happened.

“Diamondback was around for one night and found the most likely candidate for all your troubles.” Shades remarked, his grin caught in the silver of the moonlight. “Carl Lucas. An inmate back at Seagate, died in explosion.”

“So what? He rose from the dead and started attacking my safehouses?” Toning Cornell’s voice was a sense of disbelief. Humour in the situation, as the very thought of a man rising back to life in the efforts of taking down criminal syndicates was almost nonsense to his ears.

Shades smiled. It was clear to be a false amusement, humouring Cornell with a smile, although finding nothing funny had been uttered. Instead, he gritted his teeth and narrowed his eyes. “Unbreakable skin and bullet-holed hoodies. Tall, black, powerful.”

“Okay,” Cornell accepted the idea, the gritting of Shades’ teeth dispelling his humour of the situation. “And where does that leave us? All you’re good for is being Diamondback’s little spy. But what happens when he finds out what you’ve really been doing. Don’t think I ain’t noticed you, Shades. Collecting any small win for power until eventually you got enough to be powerful. But this, this is a farce. An excuse. Proof to Diamondback that you’re loyal, while you know full well, the only thing you’re loyal to is those sunglasses.”

“You couldn’t just convince me to let you live, huh? Too proud to plead for your life.” Shades’ voice was toned with some sentimentality and sincerity. “You had to convince me of the dangers of my path.”

“No point begging. Truth is all we need now – only the truth.”

“Alright then, truth is, your disloyalty to Diamondback is what got you here. But at least you ain’t disloyal to yourself.” Echoing through the warehouse was a deafening blast of a gunshot. The sound reverberated across the walls and through the windows. Meanwhile, Cornell felt a searing pain in his side, an agony that staggered him, forcing him to clutch his hand against the wound. Blood oozed from it at first, until it began to flood outwards. Another gunshot sounded, and this time a bullet blast through his shoulder. “Should’ve been loyal, Cornell. Now look where it go you.”

Shades leant down and stared at the man, his eyes in pain. An unspoken oath of revenge burning in his eyes, whilst his mouth struggled for air. “Nice doing business with you, Cottonmouth.” As Shades spoke, he waved the gun in his face. At first it seemed unassuming, but he quickly recognised it to be a pistol he’d seen in Mariah’s house. He saw it clasped in the black leather gloves, and his mind raced to the realisation that his murder was more than revenge on him. It was a framing.

Shades began to wander out, turning back and watching as Cornell struggled.

The door shut. Silence filled the warehouse and Cornell found himself bleeding against the cold, concrete floor. Distant sirens called out to him, a promise of rescue. But he couldn’t let himself be rescued by the cops – not knowing what Diamondback might have in store.

Clasping his side, he knew there was only one man he trusted. An age=-old friend and neutral in all things, except basketball.

***

Cornell staggered through the door, groaning in agony as he tried to dismiss the piercing pain that the bullet had erupted in his side. He struggled with bated breath, each exhale expressing the utter pain that coursed through him. His hands were bloodied, scraping across the alley walls, before staining the yellow walls of the room he’d stumbled into.

He’d managed to drag himself with heavy determination through the deserted streets of Harlem. He was spotted by some people, but nobody had yet seen the wound he’d clutched his hand around. Avoiding the hospital and the police station, his mind turned to his cousin, Mariah was an option, but her ruthlessness outweighed her reliability.

Morning sunlight basked through the windows of Pop’s Barbershop, illuminating the room with a pristine glow. The only man he could trust – the Switzerland of Harlem.

Pop wandered through the back, his front doors still unopened and he had found himself preparing for the day ahead. His eyes promptly fell upon the pooling blood which flooded from Cornell’s side, their eyes meeting moments later.

“Help me, Pop.” Cornell pleaded, a genuine search for pity rooted in his eyes. Pop hesitated, flashing in his mind was Chico’s face. The fear and desperation. Cornell’s threw himself into the closest seat, a flimsy, creaky wooden one that sat abandoned in the corner of the room. Although Cornell’s pain glistened in his eyes, Pop couldn’t help himself but see the young Chico. The son of both of their childhood friend. In some way, a member of the family they formed. Their crew.

“You fool.” Pop barked, storming across the room. “This – this is what they mean when they say karma’s a bitch.” At the very use of the word, Pop retrieved a dollar from his pocket and put it aside. He stood above Cornell, furiously, before dropping down to examine the wound. His hands clasped a towel, irritated that he was about to ruin the pristine whiteness of it.

“Look – I know I did you dirty. I know what happened with Chico was messed up. But you gotta help me, Pop. For old time’s sake, if not for the fact that you’re neutral in all this.” Pop examined the would, unsure exactly what to do. He’d dealt with some wounds in his life, but not a fleshy one pulsating with blood like this one. Cornell’s words were true, but Pop still couldn’t quite shake that memory of Chico.

Pop pulled away the towel, handing it to Cornell to hold it against the wound, and wandered across the room. He clasped the phone from the wall and held it to his ear, speaking softly and quietly to deter Cornell’s nosiness.

After the phone was latched back into place, Cornell’s curiosity grew. He questioned and interrogated, even tried leaving. But Pop was determined to keep his quiet until the person he’d called for arrived.

Twenty minutes later, a sweating and panting man raced through the back entrance of the barbershop. He was a man that Cornell only vaguely recognised, although he had no familiarity to him at all. The name he offered, Luke, meant nothing to him.

“Sweet Christmas.” He uttered, looking at the bloodied mess of Cornell’s body. “So, this is Cottonmouth. In the flesh, and then some?”

“My name ain’t Cottonmouth!” Cornell barked, although his shouting was quietened by the pulsing pain which surged through his side. “Pop, who is this guy?”

“The only man I can fully trust right now.” Pop answered with certainty, hope teeming from his eyes as he glanced across towards the man. “He can get you somewhere – a hospital or something.”

“No offence Pop,” Cornell chuckled, his eyes jolting back to Luke. “But any of Diamondback’s men could pump about twenty bullets into this guy from a mile away.”

“I’d like to see them try.” Pop grinned, glancing up to Luke. Cornell’s eyes glanced confused, flickering between Pop and Luke. He tried examining if there was something different to inspire such nonchalance in Pop, but there didn’t seem to be. Luke looked ordinary – beyond ordinary.

“Who’s Diamondback?”  Luke asked, dismissing the talk of bullets and gunfire. Cornell groaned, adjusting himself to face Luke properly.

“An old friend. Usurper to the throne of Harlem.” Cornell groaned and sighed, his eyes cutting across towards Luke. “To avoid getting all Shakespeare on your ass, he’s just a man from a whole ass different state, running to make his bank bigger.”

Luke paused, a few connections ringing in his mind as he thought to the night prior. “Willis Stryker?” Cornell ignored the agony which continued to pain him, before his pleading eyes opened up to a confusion in Luke’s direction.

“Maybe.” He answered shortly, cautiously. “He reckons he found the man ruining my operations… Carl Lucas.” Luke’s flicker of concern, a wince at the name, gave Cornell the very answer he was looking for. Luke didn’t need to utter a word to confirm some loose details floating away in his mind. “Listen – I’m not a religious man. I can ignore the eye-for-an-eye bullshit if you help me out here.” Luke glanced towards Pop, who shrugged his shoulders.

“You didn’t help out Chico.”

“That boy was trouble.” Cornell spat, reeling back as he felt himself reeling back. Luke guiltily glanced back towards Pop, who sighed with a heavy expression in his eyes. Luke took a deep breath and a heavy gulp, before leaning forward and picking Cornell up from the seat.

Despite the fact that Cornell was a tall man with some weight in his muscles, Luke took the flimsy bleeding body in his stride. “I’m taking you to the hospital, and from there, you’ve got to deal with your own crap.” Luke began to stride through the back door, his eyes locking back onto Pop. Mixed in the old man’s eyes were pride and relief.

Pop couldn’t quite find the strength to help Cornell. The grief of Chico’s death still weighed on him, but he watched that strength glisten in Luke, who stormed out from the back of the barbershop, wielding Cornell like a ragdoll flailing around in his arms.

Chapter Text

Often, a realisation or an epiphany faced by a hero is embedded in the centre of a story. It acts to serve a climax. But the lives of these people do not follow those conventions. Realisations and epiphany can happen at any point, it is a revelation that lingers and waits, pouncing at any moment.

For Matthew Murdock, the revelation of his true nature was unexpected. He had been plagued with spouts of absent memories, aching in his bones, specs of blood on his clothes, but no answers to define the events that happened. His concern was overshadowed by the urgency of his life, and in the days that he turned to help the Agents of SHIELD, they appeared to dispel themselves.

But upon returning home. Finding himself alone in a city of constant chaos, the spouts began to drip back. But one night, only days after his encounter with the Whizzer and Spiderman, Matthew awoke. His dark nature put towards him.

***

Blood stained Matt’s sore and bruised fists.

He stood in the middle of an alleyway, the ripped fabric of a woman’s dress and the contents of her handbag splayed out across the floor. Beside them was the beaten, bruised body of a thick burly man. In his hand was a sharp dirtied knife, whilst sweat mixed with his oozing pools of blood.

Stood over the scene, Matt panted heavily. His winced and shut his eyes, a begging for forgiveness emerged from the back of his mind. But it was overshadowed by a darker, louder voice.

“Matthew.” It whispered. Although it was just words floating in his mind, he felt the bony hand of Kilgrave touch his shoulder, skeletal almost. “I’m sorry… but this… this is you.” The voice of the devil was quiet, the sense of justice that erupted from the broken body of the man at his feet felt seductive.

Matt shook his head furiously, stumbling back as he heard the man’s heartbeat slowly fading from his body. He hoped for police sirens or ambulance sirens to ring deep in his ears, but they caught no sound at all.

Clenching his fists, he attempted to dispel the voice. “I’ve hidden this from you for long enough, but… think, Matthew. Think back to those nights you can’t remember. The blood. The justice. You… you are the man who punishes.”

Matt screamed with no warning, angry at the voice. “Go away!” He heard curtains draw open, lightbulbs flick on. Shocks, gasps and panic sounded from each curious observer, as their eyes fell upon the bleeding body of a man in the side alleys of their apartment.

But Matt’s attention lingered elsewhere. He didn’t care for the risk he had put himself in, but instead the looming realisation that haunted his mind. Months prior flashed in his mind, the nights he worked for Fisk. The blacked out memories, the specs of blood and the randomly-found bruises. Deep within Matt was the doomed realisation that there was blood on his hands. Punishment enacted with his bare hands.

Matt staggered from the alleyway, struggling to breath as the guilt and shame and grief hit him. He thought of all the sins he had indulged in. Haunting him was the lingering realisation of a darker layer to him that he wasn’t even aware of.

Besides the distant hum of traffic and incessant and infrequent dripping of water, the rain-soaked streets of Hell’s Kitchen were silent. Eerily, there was nothing drawing Matt’s attention anywhere, excepted the struggling breath of the criminal behind him. The noise was instead inside Matt’s mind, the voice of Kilgrave echoing around and clinging onto the feelings of dread and confusion and terror. His very own skull had become a chamber of echoes.

“Listen to me, Matthew.” The voice of Kilgrave was calm, almost devoid of its usual arrogance. “It’s okay to accept the darkness inside of you.”

Beneath Matt’s knuckles, he could still feel the crunching bones of his victim. The thuds of flesh that slapped against the pavement. The ordeal now coming to his vision, but the worst part was his own feeling. The smells and noises and physical touch were nothing in comparison to the pleasure and satisfaction. He cared little for the woman he saved, and more for the pain he had inflicted.

Falling to his knees, he hid himself from prying eyes from the windows above. Weighing down on his chest was a suffocating guilt, squeezing him like a metallic vice.

“I’ve been with you for so long, and I’ve watched you fight for something that you just aren’t.” The voice of Kilgrave began to sooth him. Matt shook his head, thrust his fists down against the wet concrete in hopes of freeing himself of the corruption and darkness that suckled on his heart like a parasite. “Because, Matthew, you’re not a man of the law. You’re the real Devil of Hell’s Kitchen. You are the judge. You are the jury. And, most importantly, you are the executioner.”

Matt had attempted to scream back towards the lingering ghostly voice, his own raw with anguish. “No! I’m not a monster!” He attempted to convince himself, but only found himself promptly met with fragmented memories of nights he’d lost to himself. Memories of the darkness caused by the black mask strapped to his face, as he stood over broken bodies and his own breath ragged. Twisted satisfaction glistened in his racing heart. The near-murder of criminals and men who had done terrible things and met by brutal justice.

Despite the alien feeling from the memoires, he knew they were his own. The blood on his hands proved that much.

“You’ve always known.” Ringing in the back of his mind was the relentless British accent of the devil Matt once knew. It was now louder than ever before, even the day that Matt himself stood over the man, nearing his murder. “Maybe this is why you locked those memories away – not wanting to face yourself.”

There was another splash in the water. Matt’s attention was distracted from the dying man and the lingering voice, now instead focusing on a man. A familiar scent, a familiar voice. A particular way of breathing – similar clothes.

Matt’s heart raced, breathing in ragged gasps as he tried to comprehend who was stood so close to him.

“You’re not real.” Matt cried out angrily towards the figure who stood mere metres away. His breathing grew louder, before he felt a phone fall into his lap. A sign that somebody really was there.

“You don’t want that getting wet, Matthew.” The voice of Kilgrave rang against his ears. He was muffled by the rain pour, and the distant sirens competed for his hearing. Matt smelled the air once again and caught the smell of the horrible cologne that had burned into his mind. “One step closer – I’ll see you around.”

As the footsteps drew away, Matt squeezed his eyes shut. Tears mingled with the rain that hit against his face. In his mind, he considered his father. The honour the boxer taught him, the sense of justice instilled within him. But not he felt that justice perverted by a parasitic darkness inside of him. A Devil that had been lurking in the shadows.

Fleeing into the distance, Matt escaped the crying sirens of the police. All that he left was a pool of blood and a dying victim. Whilst his hand clasped onto the phone of the victim that he didn’t even know the name of.

***

“Do you think people who live in Paris make field trips to the Eiffel Tower every year?” The voice of a young man complained, as he stood at one of the highest points in New York, crowded by tourists and classmates. His eyes darted around as girls took photographs against the city skyline and boys stared down in awe of the smallness of the cars and people and building and lampposts.

Ned Leeds turned to his friend, Peter, and shrugged his shoulders. “Probably. It’s pretty impressive.” He remarked, taking a photograph of a plane high above them.

“Okay, well what about British people – do you think they go and look at Big Ben every year.”

“You mean English people?” An interjecting voice sounded, cutting through the conversation. Ned and Peter turned their head to MJ, a girl who rarely spoke and spent most of her time quietly observing in the corner. Her eyes stared suspiciously, confused how Peter could make such an incorrect comment. “Britain is four different countries. England is the one with Big Ben – but, no, they don’t.”

“I just don’t see wh-” Peter’s annoyance was promptly silenced, as a crowd of flashing cameras and shouting reporters emerged into the open area of the landmark. Eager voices yelled excitedly, each striving for a new story from their subject, a man that caught Peter’s eyes as he wandered by.

The hulking man was bald and furious, his dark suit contrasted against the morning sky, whilst his face adorned a confident and determined smile. In his arms was a woman, with short, brown and flowing hair, and eyes that glistened with pride. The voices shouted out to him, asking for answers, calling him Wilson and Fisk as they did so.

Peter watched, as did his classmates and the tourists were ushered aside, and Fisk stood to admire the view of his city. Something tickled Peter’s neck, a tingling sensation to warn him something was wrong. Nevertheless, he watched curiously and patiently, his ears tuned to the voices of the men.

“New York.” Wilson Fisk began, turning his attention away from the skyline of the city and back towards the cameras and the journalists. His face smiled, although there was something complex to it. A hidden feeling written beneath it. “A city I strive to better – but it is poisoned. Last night, I reported an attack on my own life in my own home. But elsewhere in the city, a masked vigilante brutally assaulted a criminal. Although this vigilante prevented a crime, in doing so, they committed another. Instead of stepping in to help a civilian, they intervened with fatal consequences. They murdered a man. This – this is not the city we want.”

“Mr Fisk!” A blonde woman shouted in the quiet of the moment, wielding only a pad of paper and a pen in her hand. “What do you say about the claims that your anti-vigilante programme is a front to save your back?”

“I would deplore such accusations!” Fisk declared angrily, his eyes staring at the woman. His voice cutting through the noise, with a smooth tone. “My intentions are pure. I seek only to cleanse this city of corruption that has grown. These vigilantes are not heroes. They are not hired nor trained by law.” His eyes swept across the crowd, staring calculatedly. His eyes fell upon Peter, a young boy, happy and curious. “They disrupt the balance of justice.”

Fisk began to stroll through the crowd, his thick and firm hands clasped together. He was watched by Vanessa, the woman first attached to his side, with a sense of admiration in her eyes. Hulking and parading through them, he found himself right beside Peter. His hand shot down upon his shoulders and he smiled, proudly. “Young people today should be safe. They should trust our police. But if we do this then we threaten the lives of young people, like…” His trailing voice incited Peter to speak up.

“Peter, sir.” He answered sheepishly, barely paying the man a glance.

Lingering on Peter’s shoulder, Fisk stared down towards the young man. A smirk curled in the corner of his lips, whilst his grip on his shoulder was firm. “Peter… A strong name.” There was a pause, before Fisk turned his attention back to the cameras. “Tell me, young man. What do you make of this? Do you think masked vigilantes can solve the problems of our city?”

Peter almost wondered if it was destiny bringing this question to him. He shifted with discomfort glistening in his eyes, pressured by the question and the imposing stature of the man before him “I-” He glanced back to Ned, who sent an encouraging smile. “Sometimes the police can’t help in situations that… uh, masked vigilantes can. Consider that guy in Queens – the Spiderman. He’s flipping all around, helping cops.”

Fisk sighed. His eyes narrowed. Despite the clear rage bristling in his eyes, the smile etched across his face remained intact. “This is proof!” He shouts back, his booming voice angry and determined. “We are displacing the trust in the police, even for our young people.” Fisk paused once again, cameras flashing in his moment of triumph, before he turned back to Peter. He softly spoke now. “Peter, laws exist for a reason. Without laws to govern us, we descend into chaos, and these vigilantes, however good their intentions, bring that chaos to light.”

“But what about-” Fisk interrupted the young Peter, who had swallowed hard to encourage himself to challenge Fisk’s statement.

“A debater!” Fisk declared joyously, chuckling with the audience as he turned to them with a beaming smile. He did little more to address Peter. Instead, he patted him on the shoulder and returned to Vanessa’s side, answering another series of questions.

Peter paused. He watched Fisk with intense curiosity, his eyes fixed on him as he moved through the crowd and persuaded them all with confidence and pride glistening in his eyes.

After some time, the students were drawn out from the viewing area and returned to the streets of the city. Ned rattled off some facts in his ears about Star Wars: The Force Awakens, but Peter’s attention was elsewhere.

Ignoring his friends speel, Peter’s attention lingered on a shifty man who dwelled by the side of an alleyway. His hoodie covered most his face, but even from afar, his eyes which glistened in the sunlight were alarming enough to kick Peter’s action into gear.

Apologising to Ned, Peter shot towards the teacher. The thrill and panic was so overwhelming that he barely paid attention to the excuse he had provided, instead opting to focus his sole attention on the man. In a frantic flee, likely off to buy something from the shops, Peter slipped away from his classmates. He slid through the busy crowds that navigated around the streets, before slipping into a quiet alleyway.

Throwing his bag down to the floor, he rummaged away inside. With one quick glance around, he ducked down and began to unravel his secret identity. Promptly, he retrieved his custom-made hoodie, blue and red with the emblem of a spider plastered across the chest. He threw on some goggles, which tracked his eyes, as well as some gloves with web fluid attached to them.

The hairs on the back of his neck stood on edge as he pulled himself up along the wall and across towards the alleyway he was targeting.

Now, he perched atop a fire escape, his eyes glaring down towards the shifty man and another man. A masked man, donning all black cloth and his knuckles stained with a reddish-brown tint. He panted heavily, staring towards the shiftily moving man, who was swiftly met by another.

“This is all we got.” Stated the newcomer to the alleyway, brandishing a heavy metallic briefcase. He glanced across towards the masked man, whose attention seemed to stray elsewhere. The man handed the suitcase to the shifty hooded man, exchanging a nervous glimpse in his eyes. Peter watched curiously, waiting with patience. “Fisk ain’t one to let go of souvenirs like this.”

The man handed the briefcase over to the masked man, who anxiously clicked it open. Like a savage animal ripping open its prey, the masked man was swift to reveal the inside. From afar, Peter squinted down and stared at a purple suit. It was crumpled and worn, bloodied and torn.

“This is the genuine one?” The masked man asked tentatively, his eyes darting up towards them both. “Because it’s important that it’s real.”

“From Fisk’s own personal storage.” The newcomer stated, with a voice that was uncertain of pride or nervousness. “But listen, Fisk will notice this is gone soon enough. So whatever plans you have, they need to be quick.”

The masked man nodded his head, paying attention solely to the suit. He ran his hands across the fibres, before shifting his head like a dog latched onto a scent. He was consciously aware of everything, but promptly he held the suit up towards the men and brandished a label. “What does that say?” He asked, receiving puzzled glances from them both. “I just need a second opinion.” He lied, but clearly not phasing either of them.

“Helman and Co.” They stated, in almost-perfect unison. Exchanging puzzled looks as to why that was important, they noticed the masked man was gesturing for them now to read a receipt from an inner lined pocket. It was almost perfectly hidden, but brandished towards the men with pride as he unearthed it from inside the jacket.

“When was the sale date?” The man asked, pretending to be preoccupied.

“Last month. The 13^th.” Answering the masked man’s questions, they watched as he shut the briefcase in frustration. He buried his head in his hands and grunted furiously. He threw it towards them and paced back and forth along the alleyway.

The two men look cautiously towards one another, quickly dismissed by the masked man. They cautiously picked up the suitcase and began to back away slowly, inching towards the exit.

Peter watched, now enthralled by the situation. Frustration radiated from the angered man like a beating heat on a summers day. It was erratic, as he muttered to himself, almost in a way to argue against himself. Violence almost toned the actions he took, putting Peter on edge.

Growing impatient, Peter shot a web down towards the briefcase. The chemical combination sticking against the metal frame and shooting it through the air. The thwipping noise of the web threw the masked man to a halt, whilst puzzling the two men as the briefcase was yanked form their grips. It flew threw the air and landed in Peter’s hands, feeling the cold metal case rest permeate through the gloves.

“Hey there!” Peter shouted, his grin audible as a façade for confidence that masked his uncertainty. “Don’t mind if I borrow this for a sec? Just don’t want to miss out on the party.” Whilst Peter readied himself to open up the briefcase, his attention split towards the hooded man, whose impromptu grasp for the weapon concealed in his jacket was prevented. A web shot down across the alleyway, strapping him to the rough and coarse alley wall.

“Hey, kid!” Shouted the masked man, his head now directed upwards towards Peter. “You shouldn’t get involved with this – it’s not a game.” With a warning resonating in his low voice, there was some sincerity in his words.

But Peter dismissed it. Instead, Peter shot back up along the wall and fixed himself on an open rooftop. He felt the air brush against the hood and mask of his suit, whilst he eagerly opened up the briefcase.

Although, he hunched over the briefcase, he felt a tingle strike across the back of his neck. His ears tuned to the metallic ringing of the fire escape, and without notice the masked man shot across the rooftop and leapt towards the ground just before Peter. He loomed over him, the sunlight blocking Peter’s view for a moment, with the empire state building holding sight just in the corner of his eyes.

“Listen, you can’t just take that.”

“But it’s just a suit.” Remarked Peter, staring up puzzled. An expression even captured through the blank mask. “What’s so important about a purple suit?”

The masked man hesitated for a moment, the answer being far more complex than he wanted to delve into. “I appreciate that Spiderman is a friendly neighbourhood hero. But you stopping pickpockets and helping old ladies cross the road isn’t going to help me here.” The man stated, he almost seemed to wince in the quiet that followed, his attention straying elsewhere for a moment, before snapping back to Peter as he made a comment.

“I’m not just stopping pickpockets.” Peter barked defensively, his brow furrowing beneath his mask. There was a flicker of doubt in his words, but he promptly dismissed that. “I can help with more than that – I can help you. I… I have powers.”

The masked man scoffed, briefly caught in a reflection of himself.

“This isn’t about saving the city.” The masked man coldly stated, devoid of any emotion besides a remnant of fear. “It’s something much darker. Because that suit is a fake – a copy that convinced me, and convinced Fisk, that a great evil had been killed.”

Peter’s senses drove him into overdrive, warning him of danger. Tension tethered the man and Peter in conversation, whilst his muscles coiled in preparation for a strike. There was something predatory hidden beneath, evidenced in the way he lurked and waited and stared.

“A great evil?” Peter wondered, with a faint flair of excitement toning his words. “Like aliens and Gods?”

“No.” The masked man shook his head with some irritation. “Like men with powers that they should never have had.”

“According to men like Fisk, nobody should have powers.” Peter retorted with a speed that almost seemed rehearsed. “But what are yours? Besides being gloomy in the day.”

“Your friend… Ned. He’s explaining to your teacher that you’re probably taking longer because you’re collecting a present for your… Aunt May?” The masked man responded, almost as though the response was in anyway an answer to what his powers were.

Peter glanced suspiciously towards the man, before approaching the ledge of the building. Clasped in his hand, he held the briefcase firmly, focusing some attention down towards his classmates, who waited at a bus station, growing impatient. “But how-” His eyes flicked down once again, trying his best to hear the words Ned uttered, failing to catch the sound over the busy streets. “How can you know that?” He stammered, spinning his head back around to the masked man who hadn’t moved an inch.

Tilting his head, and bearing a grin, the man considered his next words carefully. “I know more than you think, Peter.” The name itself was emphasised, his ears catching the sound of the name mentioned down below. “You ate pancakes this morning, one slightly burnt. Over-compensated with syrup too.” Peter stared, puzzled. “There’s a cut on your hand, small but you caught it on the railing and now it’s bleeding slightly. And there’s a girl you like, I assume at least because the deodorant you’re using is incredibly powerful.”

Peter swallowed nervously, his eyes fixed on the man anxiously. “Who are you? How can you know all of that?” His voice was steady, as he kept up a façade that the man’s revelation of Peter’s day didn’t terrify him.

“I can hear the slight panic in your heartbeat. I can smell the ink on the pages in your books, and the chemicals in that device attached to your wrist. I can sense the slightest shift in the air.” The man apprehensively tore the mask from his face, and revealed his face. Peter stared confused. The powers the masked man had were incredible, but made even more impressive when his eyes were glazed over. “The name’s Matt, Peter, and this game you’re in is dangerous.”

Peter shot forward, fascinated. “Don’t tell me – you sold your sight for senses to an alien-demon?” Matt raised his eyebrow and shook his head.

“Chemicals burned my eyes when I was a kid and gave me heightened senses.” Matt frowned, as he sensed Peter waving his hand around, tyring to see if he could be detected. “I need the suitcase.”

“Come on.” Peter whined for a moment. “I could help. There’s the Avengers for alien and terrorists, and we could be… the Protectors! Spiderman and…” His voice trailed off, waiting for Matt to answer with his alter ego’s name.

“I don’t have a name.” Matt remarked coldly, having never considered the identity he had.

“Every hero has a name.” Peter looked towards Matt, with a slither of disappointment covered by his mask. “Tony Stark is Iron Man. Captain America is Steve Rogers. Thor is… Thor.”

Matt relieved a heavy sigh, whilst his patience thinned. “I’m not a hero, Peter. I’m just a man trying to do what’s right.” Matt paused for a moment, his attention straying elsewhere as though he was distracted. “The Devil of Hell’s Kitchen can work.” Matt remarked, a small flicker of a smile merged with uncertainty.

Peter frowned, hesitating for a moment. “That’s a start – we could brainstorm it.” He smirked before handing the briefcase back to Matt. “This… ‘evil’ – is it related to that Wilson Fisk?”

Matt was now wielding the hesitation, glancing to Peter with some uncertainty. “Fisk is embroiled in the situation.”

“But Fisk is like… he’s definitely a bad dude right?”

“Not as bad as some players in the game.”

“So he’s not your focus?”

“I have an eye on him.” Matt responded quickly and promptly.

“With the ability to hear heartbeats I bet you have an eye on everyone.” Peter smirked, glancing back to Matt. “Or at least an ear? A nose?”

“An eye.” Matt dismissed calmly, unamused by Peter’s quipping voice.

“You need someone close in there, though, right? Inconspicuous and observant.” Peter wondered, a dangerous curiosity toning his voice as he stared at Matt eagerly. With some reluctance, Matt agreed. After all, with Kilgrave lingering in his mind, cases to hold in court, and the Agents of SHIELD fighting an Inhuman crisis elsewhere, he was spreading himself thin. “Do me a favour then – distract my teacher.”

Peter lunged forward and patted Matt on the shoulder, a gleaming smile across his face. Although the expression was hidden beneath the mask, Matt could sense it regardless. His ears tuned to the sound of the thwipping webs, as they pulled him across the skyline. Peter spoke to himself, his voice locked into Matt’s ears, even if it’s constant movement was a distraction.

Matt listened curiously, as Peters hands gripped against a wall and he began to pull himself up along the Empire State Building itself.

With some compliance to Peter’s request, Matt deterred his attention elsewhere. He handed the briefcase back to the hooded thugs, who had spent their time trying to unstick themselves form webbing, before shooting back through the street. He’d spent a brief amount of time changing his clothes, now passing through the streets in an ordinary grey suit, red glasses and a cane hitting the ground beneath him – destined for Peter’s clueless teacher.

Before long, Peter arrived to the top of the building, having entered a floor below to change into the outfit of Peter Parker. He hurried along through the crowds, navigating himself towards Wilson Fisk, who stood in awe of the city beneath them. The cameras and journalists had dissipated, but the man himself wanted to admire the beauty and the power and normality of the city below.

“Mr Fisk!” Peter called out, racing through the crowd with his hand waving through the air excitedly. “Mr- Mr Fisk!” He threw his hand out to shake the man’s, as their eyes met and Peter found himself staring up in amazement at the towering figure.

“Peter.” Fisk spoke with honour and cautious intrigue. “What can I help you with?”

“I- I was wondering if I could speak with you. For a school interview – it would be amazing for a project. Extra credit around Christmas would also be incredibly useful.” Fisk stared down at Peter, a pride glistening in his eyes.

“Depends on the subject – I don’t just do interviews for anybody.”

“I’m thinking crime – crime amongst young people. Or vigilantes? What you think the impact of crime and vigilantes is on young people today?” Peter proposed, his voice eager and excited. “Come on, Mr Fisk.”

Fisk hesitated, but the gentle and soothing voice of Vanessa urged him to agree. “Go on, Wilson, you know the positive impact you can have. Imagine if more people saw the world like you do.”

Peter observed a hesitancy in Fisk’s eyes, but he followed with a reluctant agreement. Although, before too long, Peter watched as a security guard, draped in all black, urgently approached Fisk.

“Mr Stokes is waiting for you.” He whispered quietly, although Peter’s ears still caught onto the voice.

Chapter Text

Sometimes, in the darkest moments, even heroes need a moment of light. Often, for many, the month of December holds the peak of that light. Because for one day, we might consider the world to pause and hold still. On this December 25^th, the heroes of our stories receive a well deserved break. A pause in their tumultuous lives.

***

Tinsel lined the walls of the office, whilst a flickering Christmas tree sat obnoxious and bright in the corner. It sat in full display of the city below, ready to be spotted by anybody who glanced up with an ounce of curiosity. Karen poured cups of hot chocolate and coffee for Foggy and Matt, who smiled cheerfully on seats by Karen’s desk.

In the corner of the room, a radio played soft Christmas-y jazz, whilst the smell of cinnamon and gingerbread permeated through the air. Nothing fell short of an overwhelming Christmas experience for Matt, all compensating for his inability to see the decorations that lined the walls around him.

Foggy leant down towards the tree, retrieving two separate boxes of wrapped presents. His blonde shaggy hair was caught under the warm glow of the Christmas lights and the looming silver of the sun above. Written across his face was an excitement, which promptly faded as the presents were handed to Matt and Karen, who had now returned to her seat and delivered three boiling hot drinks to the desk.

Karen let out an abrupt burst of laughter as the wrapped present fell into her lap and she investigated the handling of the wrapping paper itself. Foggy looked offended, his eyes wide as he looked to her. “Look – I know it’s bad. I’ve never been good at wrapping presents.”

“This is terrible!” She laughed, her comments in jest.

“Matt doesn’t have a problem with it.” Foggy defended joyfully, with Karen’s eyes flicking back to Matt, whose hands ran along the shoddy craftsmanship. Her face returned to exchange a raised eyebrow to Foggy, who stammered for words. “Who even needs well-wrapped presents?”

Matt grinned, “Santa.” Sarcastically he remarked, before digging his hand through an overlay of poorly wrapped paper. He ferociously ripped apart the paper, splitting into torn creasing paper and grinning as he felt Karen and Foggy’s eyes look at him in shock. “Now comes the tricky part.” Commented Matt, freeing the present of the shoddy work and exposing it to the world. Matt ran his hand around the box it was held within, before feeling that the small rectangular shape was not a box.

Instead, he found his hand running along the spine of a book, before feeling the juddering pages on the other side. Matt flipped the book around and ran it along the cover, feeling a title poking out in smooth bumps of braille. Karen glanced over to spot a lawyer’s book, which must’ve held high esteem in Matt’s mind, as he joyously thanked him with an expressive chuckle. Karen now ripped open hers, finding camera film and small accessories perfectly gifted to a private investigating sleuth in her amateur days. Karen thanked him cheerfully, resting it on the table.

She readied herself to grab her own presents from behind, yet Foggy handed them both new presents. These were just as poorly wrapped, yet held similar funky-looking shapes. Ripping off the wrapping paper simultaneously, Karen and Matt felt the cold ceramic of a mug clasped in their hands. Karen read hers and let out a humoured laugh at the sight of ‘World’s Best Secretary’, before explaining to Matt that his read ‘World’s Second Best Lawyer’.

“Oh you shouldn’t have!” Matt exclaimed, receiving a nonchalant refusal from Foggy. “No seriously, you should’ve have. I think you gave me your own mug.” Matt joked, grinning as he ran his hand against the lettering, which was slightly different in texture as the cursive writing was a decal against the ceramic.

“You could’ve told me we had new mugs before I made us drinks.” A tone of humour seeped through Karen’s expression, as she rested the mug down upon her desk. Matt smirked to himself, caught in his own thoughts. Wrapping around him was the warmth and comfort of the moment, and for the first time in what felt like forever, Matt felt allowed to enjoy the company of his friends.

As Foggy leapt up towards the small kitchenette, Karen leant over to Matt. She nudged his elbow as her giggling settled down and, with a soft and sincere tone, she whispered. “It’s nice seeing you like this.” Her hand held his reassuringly, “We’ve missed having you around and just being… you.”

Foggy’s ears caught the words even from the other room, and he wandered in wielding gingerbread men. “Yeah – it’s been a rough year. What with Jessica gone and you in jai – but it’s good to have you back. Have us back!” He exclaimed, only lacking the call for cheers to bring the moment to a celebration.

Masked behind the faltering smile, Matt’s mind cast back to the year. The violence, Stick, Elektra, Kilgrave, Inhumans. All of it culminated into something horrific. In all of it, he had lost himself.

Yet, as he sat in the small decorated office, with the scent of Christmas dancing through the air, Matt felt a glimmer of hope sprinkle the air like fairy dust scattered for good measure. Perhaps, there was a chance to rebuild his life here. A chance to clamber for normality in the disturbed world.

“I’m just thankful to have you guys.” Matt smiled, before feeling the slight squeeze of Karen’s hand. He felt her heart beating calmly with flickers of activity. The gesture itself spoke a thosuands words of care and compassion, enough for Matt to read in no need for expressions or words.

“Alright,” Foggy expelled, reaching down for the gifts. “No more mushy stuff – more presents!” Clasped in his hands were perfectly packaged presents, their tags neatly scribbled on in direct address to Matt and Foggy.

Karen glanced proudly between the pair, as she took the responsibility of the gifts. She watched as Matt unearthed a pair of durable gloves and a flashy new cane, whilst Foggy revealed a clinking bottle of whiskey and a subscription to more.

As the night grew on, and the final presents were exchanged between the trio, and their cups of coffee were drank, Matt felt the nearing of their departure. He sensed their readiness to leave, to abandon the lingering they felt confined to out of love and respect and comfort. Behind them, the tree twinkled softly, and the city below buzzed with life.

At some point, later in the night, Karen and Foggy laughed and joked as they looked over the city. Matt had separated from the discussion, reflecting his drifting mind. Flashing in his mind was the swelling fear that had haunted him throughout the year.

“None of this will last.” The cold and cynical voice of Kilgrave rang in his ear. It was quiet and calm, untampered by the fact it was confined to his mind. “You know that this life is a façade. A façade you can’t keep up. You’re no actor, Matt. You’re a demon indulging in child splay in a courtroom.” The gnawing reminder that his peace was vulnerable, like cracked glass ready to be shattered at any moment. He recalled the suit, the unmarked suit that was a fake. He recalled Kilgrave’s touch the night he awoke in the damp alleyway.

His breathing grew heavier, and both Foggy and Karen swivelled their heads around nervously.

“Matt, are you okay?” They both asked, shooting across the room with incredibly rapidity. Matt peered up towards them, his voice breaking slightly as he sought the words out.

“I’ve tried to supress it…” Matt struggled, wincing in ignorance towards the voice echoing in his mind. Foggy and Karen exchanged worried glances towards one another, kneeling by his side. “But then the other day, I-” Matt’s voice weakened, the words caught in the back of his throat. Restrained by a fear, a pressure by a force in his mind. Foggy rubbed his shoulder awkwardly, whilst Karen held his hand. Her eyes, although not visible to Matt, reassured and comforted him. “I think Kilgrave might still be alive.” The words rolled of his tongue, heavy as they collapsed to the floor. A silent thud shocked the room into silence, as Foggy and Karen exchanged apprehensive glances. Uncertainty whether Matt’s words were terror or grief or delusion.

“Fisk…” Foggy nervously began, glancing to Karen and receiving an approved agreement. “Fisk killed Kilgrave, Matt.”

“I know…” Matt nervously stated, now consciously aware of how his words sounded aloud. “This sounds crazy but he visited me the other night. Gave me a guy’s phone that had been beaten up in an alley… It was him. His smell, his voice, the fibre’s of his jacket, the arrogance of his voice.”

“So, Kilgrave’s risen from the dead?” Foggy wondered, kept in disbelief as he tried to remain calm. Matt shook his head in rejection, misunderstood as he tried to explain something that veered into sheer ludicrousness.

“I checked the suit that Kilgrave was wearing when Fisk killed him. It was new – like a month old. And the wrong suit.” Matt’s panic and fear brought the room to a silence, with only the slow Christmas jazz harmonising in the background to prick their ears. The warmth of the room almost seemed to seep away, as their eyes reflected Matt’s feelings.

“Matt, are you sure?” Karen asked cautiously. “Maybe – you know, maybe it’s just your mind playing tricks on you? You’ve been through a lot…”

“No, Karen.” Matt was adamant, determined. Certain and faithful in his senses that had never let him down before – besides, it seemed, the day Kilgrave died. “I know what I felt. I know what I smelt and heard – I know that Kilgrave is alive. And if he is, then everything that has happened, it’s coming back.”

Foggy scoffed for a moment, rubbing his temples as he was caught in his own mind. “Surely, Fisk wouldn’t want to leave loose ends. He wanted Kilgrave dead, and he made sure he was. A man like him couldn’t make any mistakes. After all, have you ever seen that man with a stain on his clothes or a crease in his shirt? He’s immaculate. Keen eyes.”

“But Kilgrave was smart.” Karen spoke now, her own mind playing through her trauma as she considered the possibility. “He planned everything…” Her mind now synchronised with Matt’s who had cycled through these thoughts himself.

Now, as their voices halted and the slow jazz played in the background, the joy of the evening seemed false. The decorations and music and food and presents seemed to be a cruel joke, all masking a creeping dread that gripped them tightly. Rapid heartbeats now pounded in each of their chests, with shallow breathing and terror-struck faces.

“Of course, I’ve planned everything.” Kilgrave whispered, Matt feeling his breath on his ear, shooting a panic down his spine as he winced slightly.

“No!” Foggy declared abruptly. “I’m not letting that British asshat steal tonight. All that is for another night – not tonight. Not Christmas.”

Karen giggled as she broke her attention to Foggy. “Asshat?” She chuckled, erupting a smirk to Matt’s face too.

“I don’t know – but all of that, we’ll sort out together. But not tonight.” His eyes glared at Karen apprehensively. “Right?”

Karen chuckled, “Alright.”

“Alright.” Matt agreed, feeling Karen nudge him.

“Anything else you need to enlighten us on before we open that whiskey?” Foggy asked, half-joking as he paced across the room.

“I haven’t been entirely honest with you about where I’d been the last month or so.” Matt stated apprehensively.

***

The playground was quiet upon Christmas day. Some scientists and engineers and soldiers had taken the day off, but the main bulk of the agents of SHIELD had kept themselves houses within the confined walls of the SHIELD headquarters. Many of them had no family to visit, or nowhere to go, but their small unit of agents had formed a family enough.

Calm draped through the halls, whilst in the common room sat a modest and small tree, adorned with briskly-put-on decorations. It held a soft glow in the darkness it lingered in, unnoticed by most of those who sat in the room.

Jessica sat alone in the corner of the common room, her hand clasped over a small dossier of everything she had managed to collect so far at her time in HYDRA. She caught a glimpse of her reflection in a window that peered into the corridor, and she stared at her face long and hard. Her reflection mirrored a ghost of a person she once was, the person free of Kilgrave’s control and captivity. She thought back to those months, sitting quietly as she considered the patchwork of blurry memories. Her child, the abuse, the confusion.

The room was filled with the rest of the team, scattered and nervous. Jessica’s eyes peered around as she broke from the thought. She caught sight of Fitz and Simmons who held onto each other tightly and nervously. Simmons’ face twisted with trauma, as her hand intertwined with Fitz’. Coulson and Rosalind were deep into conversation, hovering by a glass of wine and some cut-up fruit cake. Mack, Bobbi, Daisy and Hunter lingered by the tree, bantering and laughing. May’s eyes scoured the scene, carefully analysing everybody, until locking on Jessica.

May’s approach drew Jessica’s attention away from her haunting reflection and back towards her, as she held a glass of bourbon firmly in her hand. Offering it out to Jessica, May’s dark eyes assessed her silently.

“Thanks.” Taking a sip, Jessica felt the bourbon burn the back of her throat. She smiled gently, even when May asked how she was doing. “I’m doing well – or, as well as I can do considering I’m spending the day hunting for a kid I barely remember.” May nodded her head, expressed a glance in her face as consolation. “It’s just… I never wanted any of this, you know? I mean, a kid with Kilgrave. Intercepting HYDRA… My life’s been hijacked by assholes and I just want some control. Some normality. And I can’t even go back home to my sister, because I can’t risk HYDRA catching me living my normal life.”

Sipping her own glass, May’s gaze drifted through the room’s agents. Their expression’s in her face as she did so, before turning back to Jessica. “We all deal with the hand we’re given – or mechanical one, in Coulson’s case. But you’re strong Jessica. Stronger than you think.” May’s stoic face rarely expressed much emotion, but there was a strength and determination written across it as she spoke and assured Jessica.

Jessica offered a small smile back to May, thankful that there was someone she trusted throughout the strange chaos of the events that passed her by.

Before long, Coulson’s voice called out across the room, interrupting the scattered chatter as he approached a small table in the centre of the room. Rosalind stood by his side, swirling a glass of wine in her hand, a twinkle in her eye directed towards Coulson as she stood captured in some awe.

“Alright, everyone, gather round! We’ve got a little something to lift the spirits.” A small stack of presents were unloaded upon the table by Rosalind and Coulson, both of whom smiled gently as their eyes danced around the room. “Now, we didn’t have much time, nor much to gift. But we figured we needed a bit of holiday cheer.” His smile was lined a weariness, that was plastered over with some sense of hopeful joy.

Mack was first to lunge and plucked a gift from the pile, recognising it instantly. “This is from me and Bobbi. Hope you like it, man.” Mack smiled as he handed a bottle-shaped gift to Hunter, who had very little surprise to discover that it was in fact a bottle. But the joy written across his face glimmered from the label of fine scotch.

“Oh yeah!” He let out a boisterous chuckle, holding the bottle high. “That’s a Christmas gift! Something to make the holiday brighter!”

With each gift exchanged, there was a growth in the noise and the laughter and the joy. The warmth of the room was doubled by the seemingly brightening lights of the Christmas tree. The air felt lighter and the world seemed calmer. All of their battles and fighting ceased of importance and their friendship formed the bind that held them at the table.

Bobbi grinned as she handed a small neatly wrapped box to Daisy, her eyes eager as she grinned. “This is from me.” She stated quietly, almost keeping her voice a whisper as to not let on the genius that went into her gift-preparation. “I know you’ve been wanting to get back into art, so consider this a little push.”

Daisy, intrigued, raised an eyebrow before diverting her attention straight down towards the box. She tore off the paper and found a sketchbook, heaped with untouched pages, and charcoal pencils orderly compact within their case. Lighting up with shock and excitement, Daisy’s eyes glanced back to Bobbi. “These are perfect! I’ve not sketched in ages!”

“Yeah, well I figured you need something to unwind with – when you’re not out there saving Inhumans or hacking top-secret databases.”

“Hey – I’m multi-talented. Watch me sketch, hack and save all on the job.” Diasy retorted playfully, her eyes caught in excitement as they flickered between the sketchbook and Bobbi.

Mack handed Fitz a heavy gift, which revealed itself to be a custom-made toolkit, each piece inscribed with his initials. Although they defied Fitz’ organisation, his eyes still widened with awe and appreciation, speechless as he began to re-order the tools inside for the day he might need another toolkit.

After a struggle for thanks, Mack simply shrugged with modesty beaming from his smile. “Just making sure our tech genius has everything he needs.”

In response, Simmons handed Fitz a small and delicately wrapped present. In size, it held little comparison to Mack’s present, even in weight it appeared to merely be as lightweight as a vinyl record – similar shape and size too.

As Mack unwrapped it, certain he knew the concept of the present, his face lit up in shock. A vintage record, smelling of an old basement and worn like it hadn’t been untouched since the 70s, was a record of one of Mack’s favourite classic rock bands. Amaze filled his eyes and shocked mouth, as he stared across towards the pair.

“I’ve been looking for this forever. How did you even find this? It’s been like twenty years…”

Simmons gleefully smiled back, “I have my ways.” Crytpically, she winked at Mack, before she felt him throw his arms around her for a hug.

The gift-gifting extended through the portion of the evening. Coulson had received a vintage watch from Rosalind, a former piece of property from Howard Stark. Built around the idea of time being precious, as well as knowing his nerdiness of SHIELD’s history.

Bobbi was handed sleek new throwing knives from Hunter, whilst Daisy handed May a pair of heavy duty, wireless earbuds. Although, during the festive buzz of the room which seeped through and seized the agents eagerly, Jessica remained in the corner. Her eyes observed, detached and apprehensive. These people weren’t her friends, just people helping her briefly. She expected soon enough she’d be in her own company, simply alone from day-to-day. Nothing new.

Jessica eventually caught May’s eyes, who wandered towards her and nudged her gently with her elbow. Written beneath her fixed frown was an unusual and subtle smile. It was hidden and barely visible, but exposed enough for Jessica to raise an eyebrow. “Whether you like it or not, you’re part of this team, Jessica. You’re not sitting here and sulking when you’ve got a present waiting for you over there.”

Although slightly annoyed, there was some warmth and relief in Jessica. She rolled her eyes beneath her raised eyebrow and pushed herself to her feet. “Fine,” she finally releneted, pulling herself towards the clustering group. “But if it’s a ‘World’s Best Super’ mug, I’m telling HYDRA where your base is.” She glanced towards the group, catching a glimpse of Coulson who jokingly plucked a present from the pile and hid it beneath the table.

As she stood at the table, reluctant but secretly also excited, Coulson plucked the present from underneath the table. It was relatively small, yet heavy, although the pristine packaging of the wrapping paper astonished Jessica, who smirked as she glanced over.

“Did you wrap this yourself, Coulson?” Coulson smirked, playfully chuckling with a suspicious look.

“Any good boss outsources his work. My wrapping skills are classified.” There was a light laughter which permeated through the group. Through the small chuckle, Rosalind made a comment which went unnoticed.

They waited cautiously, watching as Jessica apprehensively opened up the wrapping paper and found a new camera. Small and discreet, yet surprisingly high-tech, the camera seized the words from Jessica. A warmth burned in her heart, forgetting the last time she felt appreciated like this. She was sure Kilgrave would’ve done the same, but his obsessive compassion was nothing to this extent.

“This is…” She struggled for the words, her eyes jumping around the group, but fixing on Coulson. “This so cool… thank you, Coulson.”

Coulson merely shrugged his shoulders, his face brimming with a grin. “Private Investigation. HYDRA infiltration. You’ll need it.” He winked at Jessica proudly, although she wasn’t too sure if his pride was for the present or himself.

Moments later, May smiled gently. She handed a small present, although slightly more haphazard in it’s wrapping. “This is from me.” Her voice was casual and calm, apprehensive and anticipation melding into one. She watched as Jessica unwrapped it, revealing a flask. It was polished silver, brand new and detailed with floral patterns. Engraved on the other side were her initials ‘J.J’’. “For the hard days” May remarked, smiling gently, “Figured you could use it when a glass isn’t enough.”

Eventually, the presents were handed out and they settled into a comfortable quiet. Jessica was seated next to May, with the flask peeking out from her pocket. Catching May’s proud eye staring down at it, she relinquished it from her pocket and held it up perfectly. “To surviving another year.” She quietly remarked with a tone of humour in her voice. May clinked her glass to Jessica’s flask and for a moment, the world was caught in calm and quiet. The turmoil of Kilgrave and the pain of her lost child was almost faded from her attention.

Chapter Text

As time shifts amongst this version of reality, the original events scattered amongst the sacred timeline are contrastingly different. New friends are made, and foes are either never made, defeated early or grow in power. It is the enemy Gideon Malick, the man who sought to resurrect HYDRA from it’s dying corpse through sacrificial rituals for the Hive.

However, in this timeline of events, his re-encounter with Phil Coulson would play out with significant difference.

***

Tracking down Malick had taken little over a month, but his final known whereabouts had been flagged to Rosalind. Sleepless nights had bled into tiresome days as Rosalind sifted through scraps of intelligence, which faded through the ether like whispers on the wind. She felt as though she was combing through a vast and desolate beach, searching for a single grain of truth. The shape and location unknown and elusive. Yet with Rosalind’s determination, she soon uncovered an old warehouse. Unassuming, barely registered, barely important.

Malick’s last known being a German warehouse was a peculiar location for him, but one that nobody quite seemed to care about. The agents of SHIELD clung to the hope that finding Malick was a step closer to finding Kilgrave, or at least a step closer to tackling the ATCU and/or HYDRA. With a multitude of goals, nobody was quite certain which one Malick fulfilled. But he certainly fulfilled one goal. That was enough.

“A German warehouse? I expected something a little more… exotic, for HYDRA.” Hunter chuckled, breaking the silence that lingered during the briefing. Everybody glanced to him with a curious glint in their eyes, wondering why he’d even make such a remark.

“We’re not exactly here for aesthetics, Hunter.” Coulson’s voice was quick and dry, his eyes shot towards Hunter as his mind rifled through the various probabilities.

“To be fair, it’s a bit of a weird location, isn’t it?” Mack chimed in, raising an eyebrow as he glanced across. “Feels wrong.” He remarked, noticing Coulson’s eyes had now turned to him. There was a stillness in the room that followed, as the distant sound of chatter from agents roared from outside, and the smell of brickwork and concrete permeated from the walls and the ceiling above.

“Could be a front. I mean, security’s weak. Quite weak actually” Fitz stated, glancing around the room. His mouth pouted politely, a sense of shock toned it as it did so. His inquisitive wide eyes expressed the shock better, as he paced around with a tablet in his hand, ready to prove how weak should anybody ask. Yet nobody did, because they trusted his judgement. It cast a light blue glow across his boyish face, as his lips pursed for the next words. “You’d have thought a HYDRA warehouse would be secure. You’d expect a fortress.”

“It’s a Strucker warehouse. Clearly unmanned since he died.” Coulson remarked, a glimmer of pride when he mentioned Strucker’s fate. Were there a musical sting to follow the confidence that gleamed in his eyes, it would beckon with his pride. The name was a ghost lingering around him. “But nevertheless, we have to be careful here, we don’t know what could be set up for us.”

“Still, feels too easy.” Mack commented, unable to shake a sense of lingering doom. A tickling sensation that shot the ahirs on the back of his neck into mini soldiers, readied to face the future. His comment once again squandered the conversation for a moment, bringing nothing but silence across the group for a brief moment.

“If we find a clue to where Malick went, then we’re step closer to him – and stopping whatever the ATCU are planning.” Daisy commented, nodding her head. Her arms were crossed as she stood nearby. “Get inside, investigate the contents, find a step closer to protecting the Inhumans.” Her voice softened at the mention of her people.

Simmons’ eyes glistened with excitement, almost thrilled to be back in her role. With a tablet clasped in her hand, she waved it towards a larger screen and captured the attention of the room. Within seconds, she caught the eyes of the agents flicker between her and the screen. Fitz, May, Coulson, Mack, Hunter, Daisy, Bobbi and Rosalind all strayed their attention between Simmons and the screen shimmering beside her.

“There’s only two guards posted and the security is laughably basic. A lock and key and a keycard. The code for the door is 0645.” She reported, nodding her head with some pride, as she flicked upon the screen the identity cards of the two guards who had been positioned at the warehouse. “Fitz was mostly right - ‘quite weak’ was an understatement though.”

“Two guards?” Hunter scoffed, his eyes gleaming confidently, brimming with the readiness to start a fight. “Well, isn’t that adorable? Do we take them out with one hand tied behind our backs? Or two?” Again, Hunter’s remark summoned an onslaught of curious eyes towards him, each uncertain if they shared his arrogance which oozed from his face.

“So what?” Mack interjected, his stoic eyes glancing back to Simmons with a raise eyebrow. “Just walk in, get what we need, and walk back out?” Fitz and Simmons nodded their heads, almost sharing a confusion that Mack would even ask such a question. “Sounds too easy.”

“I agree.” May added, her eyes slyly dancing around the room as she considered the situation. “We’ve got three options – it’s a trap, it’s poorly manned, or it’s a complete dead end. I vote for poorly manned.” Amongst the room, simmering like froth bubbling into foam of boiling water, was a collective yes. Nodding heads, each gleaming with hope.

Hunter shook his head. “We should go in guns blazing. Show them what’s what. After all, there’s only two of them.” Written across his face was a grin. An overly confident grin, which grimly bristled with the thirst for a fight, whilst bruises still healed across his face.

Shooting Hunter a disappointed, and almost aggravated glare, Coulson raised his eyebrow. “We’re not here to make a scene.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know.” Hunter replied, raising his hands as a mock surrender, knowing that the joyful concept of a guns-blazing mission was off the table from the outset. “Stealth mission. Just saying, it’s been a while since we’ve had a good old-fashioned firefight.”

“Let’s keep it that way.” Bobbi rested her hand on Hunter’s shoulder, with a sly attempt to shut him up, before nodding back to May, who clearly had been waiting to respond.

“Question is, who’s going in?”

The posed question then rounded the attention towards Coulson, whose attention had lingered elsewhere. He paused, glanced around confused, wondering why they were staring at him, until he replayed the last few moments of conversation back through his head.

“Simmons, May, Mack and Daisy.” Stated Coulson, the line up prepared in his mind and shot from his mouth like rapid fire.

Fitz and Hunter were first to make a retort.

“Wait? Just Jemma? Alone?” Fitz frowned almost immediately, as his eyes flickered with a slight spree of panic. He cast his mind back to the footage of the monolith consuming her in it’s liquidy form, and the sheer terror that it had struck into his heart.

“I can handle myself, Fitz. But, thank you.” Her words were reassuring, and her lips were tugged by a small growing smile, which she tried her best to conceal.

 “And what about me, boss? Been itching to take a crack at HYDRA since forever.” Hunter broke his silence, trying to hide the slithering disappointment which grew behind his eyes.

With controlled breathing and cautious eyes, Coulson replied promptly. “You’ll get your shot, Hunter. Just not today.”

“Is it really a good idea bringing Daisy, if we know there’s a chance there’s an ATCU trap?” Mack asked, his eyes guiltily and worriedly glancing to Daisy, who took no offence. “We could be walking her straight into a mess.”

“Daisy’s powers make her an asset.”

“So do a few guns and fists – is it worth that kind of risk?” May interjected in response, protectiveness toning her voice.

“Daisy is capable.” Simmons added promptly in defence, her voice attracting the attention of the room.

“I’m also right here.” She complained agitated, feeling some relief that those four words were at least received by the group. “Look – I’m not made of glass. I get there’s every possibility that this whole thing’s a trap, but we need to find Malick and fast.”

“I can’t guarantee clues to find Malick will be there. The whole thing could be a false lead, or a dead end.” Rosalind calmly added, worried slightly that should Malick (nor clues for Malick’s whereabouts) not be found, she’d face backlash for unintentionally misleading them. Yet, there was a glimmer of hope that lingered amongst the group. There was a furrow to Coulson’s brow, as he considered her words.

Silence fell among the room.

“Well.” Coulson broke the silence, his voice firm and strong. “We go in careful and quick. Treat it like a trap, but without that stopping us. Because Malick has always been ten steps ahead, but even one step closer is a win.” Coulson’s certainty was a glint of hope, a brimming star that guided the team towards their multiple goals.

“I’ll take point – if anything goes south, I’ll get us out.” May added, strategically analysing the simulated map that flashed upon the screen by Fitz. She considered her best spots to take point at, before spinning her attention back towards the others.

Although uneasy, Mack grunted. “Fine, but if things get messy, we pull out. No heroics.”

With a heavy exhaling breath, Rosalind glanced around the room once again. “I’ll monitor what I can of ATCU chatter – even a relevant whisper and I’ll flag it.” She nodded her head, trying her best to assist in the team’s efforts.

“There’s a back entrance, hidden beneath an old service bay.” Remarked Fitz, tapping away on his tablet to highlight specific areas on the simulated schematics which flickered on the screen in a green and black display. “Avoids conflict with those guards.” Behind him, May curiously and sceptically studied the map. Her eyes scanned the routes in and out, memorising them and storing them in the back of her mind.

“Why don’t we split up.” She suggested, her eyes narrowing as she observed the details of the schematics.

“Old service bay and the front entrance?” Mack asked.

“Exactly.”

“Daisy and Simmons take the old service bay – we take the entrance?”

“Easiest way to approach, I think.” May glanced towards Daisy and Simmons in some hope for reassurance. Mack was prompt in giving a confident smile, whilst Daisy’s attention slowly returned back to May. She was met with a nod and a tight smile, the tension having dissipated from earlier.

“Sounds like a plan.”

***

Infiltrating the old safehouse was mildly simple. It seemed to have been previously accessed, with some access points carelessly left open. Yet, for the most part, it seemed perfectly abandoned – even the two guards registered on file weren’t present, with no sign they had even accessed the building in a month.

Although nobody wanted to complain about an important job being easy, there was a growing sense of unease. May and Mack stuck to the outside. Glued on the entrance, their eyes glared around into the dark and cold night, observing every detail available to them. They had finished scouting the walls of the crumbling safehouse, which loomed silently in the midst of an unappealing part of a German town. They stood under dim light, like shadows flickering powerfully.

Daisy and Simmons had proceeded inside, finding nothing but eerie silence. Dust and debris littered the floor, from decades of dereliction, yet the most important thing they found after passing through some structurally weak doors were two guards.

Both skulls battered in, blood staining the ground beneath them in a dark brown. Clutched in their hands were weapons, both stained themselves with the dismay. Death now infiltrated the scent of the safehouse. Decay and rotting, decomposition of bodies leading a foul smell that now hit their noses.

Simmons reported their finding back to everybody, a fact that only brought about a growing sense of unease and uncertainty. Putting the information together painted an unpretty picture of what the safehouse would entail, and Simmons only led them in further.

Together, they continued down the narrow passageways until it opened into a larger storage room. Crowded with crates, smashed and broken over in a mess, that led their contents to spill out across the floor in disarray, the room was borderline a mess. Old, rusted machinery stood like ancient remnants, long forgotten.

“If the dead bodies back there weren’t a dead giveaway, I’d say someone’s been here.” Daisy muttered to herself as she crouched besides one of the open crates. Rifling through it, she quickly noticed the crate was useless. Old weapons, broken weapons, but nothing that particularly stood out as helpful to a HYDRA cause.

Eventually heaving open an incredibly heavy door, surprising enough for the safehouse, Simmon’s ears caught the sound of buzzing. Flies lingered in the air whilst rats scampered away at the scraping sound of the door. Her nose was hit by the smell of decay, whilst her eyes sought through an assortment of awkwardly placed wooden crates.

Simmons followed on through, grimacing at the smell. “I think something’s died in here too.” Simmons reported back, almost gagging at the stench. Daisy watched curiously from aback, noticing the pale paralysis that caught Simmons like a picture, expressing nothing but utter terror and disgust.

Simmons had regrettably investigated further, promptly finding a corpse limped against a crate. His head was forced through a crate, nails in his hands and his clothes tattered. Cautiously, she approached the body; reluctantly pulling out the body, she found the bloodied face of Malick, rotting before her very eyes.

A trembling and shaky whisper quietly uttered, “Daisy…”

Daisy caught her breath in her throat, before tapping her ear and quietly muttering, “Coulson… Malick’s dead.”

“He’s... he’s been dead for some time.” Added Simmons.

Once a HYDRA puppet master behind many of their dark dealings, Malick was now nothing more than a rotting corpse.

A heavy silence fell on the other end before Coulson’s voice, low and puzzled, buzzed through. “Are you sure?”

“Positive,” Daisy replied, feeling his hand. Cold flesh caught in her own. “No one else here, but this place was definitely searched recently.”

Simmons’ cast her eyes away, ignoring the chatter over the comms, and paid attention elsewhere. Two wine glasses, one with few drops inside, the other barely drunk and seemingly freshly poured. Her eyes observed an opened safe beside them, and a few photographs of an eerily similar symbol. She hovered over them curiously, her mind trying to figure out where she had seen it before. The image itself drove her mad, an image so clearly woven into her mind.

“-But that’s not possible.” Rosalind’s voice was shocked and confused, panicked even. “Nobody’s said he was dead.”

“I’m telling you, without a doubt, he’s dead.”

“Anything else?” Coulson asked. Daisy swivelled around towards Simmons, in hopes for clues, but her attention was elsewhere.

Simmons picked up the photographs, and felt her mind cast back months prior. To the horrid landscape of sand and wind and hopelessness. She thought back to trauma, and felt the scraping feeling of guilt over the fact she had no desire to ever revisit the empty and lone planet. She knew Will was dead and the notion of seeing that planet again was terrifying.

“Fitz.” She quietly stated, interrupting the conversation that had been ongoing. “I need you to have a look into the symbol of the ram’s head – it looks like the NASA expedition logo on Will’s jacket.”

Daisy approached curiously, taking a glance over Simmons’ shoulder before gesturing to take one of the photographs. She took one of the photographs, before staring curiously. They both observed it curiously, the image being more reassuring than the corpse sat in the corner of the room.

Simmons handed the rest of the photographs over, before investigating the safe further. A dossier was left, although much of the information was written in Latin, and Simmons only recognised a few key words. Handing it over to Daisy, she received a similar baffled expression.

“We got what we were looking for then.” May remarked, emerging from behind the pair. Her eyes looked at the grotesque, pale cadaver.

“Why leave him here like this?” Mack wondered, staring down with morbid fixation.

“Because nobody was going to check the place out.” Commented May, peering over to Simmons who rifled through the dossier. “But the question is, what did they take?” She hovered behind Simmons, who glanced around confused.

“Six miniature monoliths?” Simmons suggested, handing over a piece of paper, which had ink marks and had aged with time, but clearly depicted the monolith and six smaller versions of it. The Latin writing, probably intentionally used, stumped her understanding. Limited only to the primitive, yet skilful, drawings, Simmons tried her best to understand what had happened here.

Fitz’ voices fizzled through the earpiece, “They’re the same.” He remarked. “Upside down – but there’s more than that. The ram’s head, the design… I ran it through the system, a likeness of 37% to the HYDRA symbol.”

“Right…” Simmons responded, voicing the very thought everybody else held.

“Which means everything is connected. NASA, the castle and HYDRA.”

“Throw the ATCU into that mix and it seems that we’re looking at one big web. HYDRA’s web.”

“The many heads of HYDRA.” Mack remarked, grimly looking at Malick’s body. “Cut one off, another one grows.”

“We’re all thinking the same thing, right?” May abruptly interjected with a cold and callous tone suddenly taking her voice. She glanced to Mack first, before darting back to Simmons and Daisy, and holding some attention to the others on the end of the comms. “An old head of HYDRA is dead – whilst a new one has spouted up elsewhere. Ward did this.”

Daisy glanced around, unconvinced. “Ward is calculating and cold. This… this is sloppy, messy. Intentionally cruel. Ward is sadistic, but efficient.”

“So, Ward had someone else do this?” Mack wondered aloud, bouncing off from May and Daisy’s suggestion.

“Or… Ward has competition.” Coulson interjected carefully. “I want you lot to get out of there. I don’t trust any of this.”

The four complied without hesitation and began to gather their findings.

Ahead of them, shadows flickered against the walls, and a cold draught snaked through the broken windows and wrecked tunnels. There was a creaking, in the corridor, followed by footsteps. Leather shoes, clopping against the ground with confidence and pride.  

Simmons paused, frozen as her eyes glanced around them. Her trembling voice uttered, “Can you hear that?”

“We’re not alone.” May nodded, her attention turned towards the tunnel, reaching for the gun and aiming into the corridor. Daisy followed, feeling her heartbeat quicken and adrenaline pulsate through her body. Sharp senses were sent on high alert, staring down for the faintest of sights of a figure.

“Fitz, Coulson, are you getting this?” Daisy whispered, straining to hear a response as she split her attention towards the deliberate echoing of footsteps, that strolled towards them with unmistakable arrogance.

“Yes - Get out of there if you’re compromised.” He warned, his voice crackling through the earpiece with a voice toned with panic and concern.

“Right!” May barked the cocking her gun resonating afterwards. “Who’s there? Show yourself” Her voice was steady, despite the churning coiling feeling that turned in her stomach. Her eyes squinted, narrowing to spot a silhouette. A man for sure. She wondered if it was Ward – within reach to fire at him once again.

Yet there was no reply. Only silence. A silence that strangled the room, like fibre wire clasped with a firm grip, squeezing out the tension which oozed with every passing second. An uneasy silence that left every breath heavy.

“Listen! We ain’t afraid to shoot. So show yourself.” Shouted Mack, standing at her side. His order was loud, and well received, but ultimately ignored.

The silence that followed was suffocating. It buzzed in the air with power and fear.

And then –

Clap.

A single, deliberate clap echoed throughout the safehouse. May’s eyes now caught the figure. It wasn’t Ward, and it certainly didn’t share his behaviour. An arrogant clap. Her eyes snapped wide, a shiver running down her spine.

Clap. Clap.

A slow and calm rhythmic clap. Arrogance bleeding from it.

Clap. Clap.

Stepping from the shadows was the face of a man she didn’t recognise at first. Tall and confident, the man was dressed in a tailored crisp suit. His tousled hair was caught by the dim light above, which almost just about caught the expression that painted his face. A dancing smirk of cruelty, eyes of almost pure evil.

“Bravo!” The voice declared, British in accent, cruel in tone. Mocking, smooth, honeyed, laced with venomous, unsettling charm.

May’s pulse quickened, hammering in her ears, drowning out every sound but the echo of those damn footsteps. Slowly, he stepped into the light, and there he was – Kilgrave. A man she had seen very little of, but heard so much of. The man May had told been about by Jessica, the man who had ruined that poor woman’s life. The man they were hunting the ghost of.

And here he stood.

Smiling. Smirking. Alive.

Daisy was first to break the silence as her heart plummeted. “No, no, this can’t be happening, he’s dead.”

“Clearly not, but that could be fixed.” May remarked, angrily scowling at the man.

“Drop the gun!” Kilgrave shouted, with a rage he’d missed. May complied. No hesitation, no question. Her gun dropped to the floor. “Thank you, Melinda.”

Panic ignited in Simmons, her mind racing with everything they had been told about Kilgrave. “But you’re supposed to be dead,” she blurted. “You were killed.”

“Long story, and you’re not the right audience for that.” He interrupted her, tilting his head as if he was admiring a work of art. “No – I’ve waited ever since Miss Price vanished for this very moment. Because it was only time you’d want to hunt down Mr Malick. And it was only time you discovered the truth.”

Mack threw May a glance, a hopeful, strategic glance. A glance which harboured thoughts of mutiny and rebellion, an uprising against the devil himself. Yet May’s eyes seemed hopeless. Pessimism, an understanding that a few shotguns bullets would do nothing – in fact, her eyes told the story of futility.

“Let me guess,” Daisy commented, “You killed Malick.”

“No.” Kilgrave remarked. “Well, semantics.”

Daisy narrowed her eyes with confusion and suspicion. “Who did?”

“Malick did. I told him to make a mess with it.” They stood, frozen and shocked. Disgusted by the nonchalance of the revelation. “And the same fate will befall you if you don’t obey. But it’s not like you have much choice.” He grinned maliciously, cruelly. “Mack, tell Coulson this: Meet us in the castle.”

Mack glanced towards May, feeling his hand raise to his ear without resistance. He tapped it, hearing the faint buzzing noise ring through. “Meet us in the castle.” Mack stated calmly, obediently. Kilgrave’s words having become his own.

“Good. I can tell you a story on the way there. Follow me – and get rid of those fucking guns. I dated a woman who could cave my skull in with her bare fist.”

Chapter Text

You want to know what happened? Fine. I'll tell you some of it. Not how I survived… No, that’s for Jessica and Matt. Maybe Fisk too. I want them to realise their mistake and know that I am always prepared. Always two steps.

The story itself is nothing more than manipulation and greed, wrapped in the delusions of those hungry for power. But it all began from the moment I sat across Gideon Malick – a man who thinks that he could reawaken gods and reshape worlds. It was then that these two sides of this decade old chess games were swamped by a third members. You both had your pawns fighting and protecting your kings, unaware that third party joined. Draped in purple.

Malick himself was exactly what you expected. Smug. Confident. Calculating. A man who didn’t flinch at the spill of wine because he knew everyone is replaceable. Except me – the man who smiled, leaned forward, listened, and finally asked “What do you need from me, Malick?” Because that was the start of the game, first move. First sign of a sleight of hand.

***

Malick grinned as he sat across the table. A polite grin. A courteous smile of respect and calm, of political negotiation. Sat on a plate before him was a steaming steak, medium rare. Oozing with red juice, which bled onto the plate and rested against the freshly roasted potatoes. The smell simmered in the air, rose and lingered, navigating across towards Malick’s nose, as his mouth began to salivate. Beside the plate was a glass of red wine, newly poured by the trembling hands of a waiter. The pouring job had been poor itself, with red stains falling from the rim and some small splatters sinking into the table-cloth.

Yet, Malick couldn’t quite fault the staff, considering the man across was a man who had seemingly been killed by the brutish hands of Wilson Fisk. The man who had terrified the whole of New York and yet was now sat across from him, privately flown over in a beautifully luxurious jet. The man who could force any whim upon another – the man who was capable of almost anything.

Sat in a purple suit, so crisp it almost bore the appearance of a fresh appearance, and fragranced in a strong cologne which entangled itself within the fabrics of the jacket, was Kilgrave.

Technically, it was Kevin Thompson – but that name had died, alongside much of Kilgrave’s sense of morality. It had almost been cut from the root when Kilgrave murdered his own parents (even despite his technical loophole that they had killed themselves). That bloodied caravan in England was still a stain on some people’s mind, especially those who had taken an interest in the powers and life of Kilgrave.

Malick had never intended to dine with Kilgrave. But when he had uncovered, through some miracle of surveillance, that Kilgrave had survived, he knew he couldn’t leave it be. Leaving such a discovery be would be a disgrace to HYDRA and to their mission. Kilgrave, in some capacity, was what HYDRA had been searching for – what Schmidt had needed to win HYDRA superiority.

“Thank you for joining me this evening.” Malick finally spoke. The time before the food had arrived has been brief, since Malick found comfort in the silence of eating, rather than the absence of conversation. Malick promptly cut a slice from the steak, and stared satisfyingly into it’s red inside. He glanced towards Kilgrave, who despite his monstrosity, sliced it open with elegance. Slow, tender skills of cutting. Malick discreetly watched as Kilgrave waited, muttered something in response, and placed the steak slice into his mouth. “It’s an honour to be sat across from you, truly.”

Kilgrave chuckled. “Believe me, it’s an honour to be flown out here – and for it not to be asked for too!” Kilgrave chuckled, gently tearing his knife through the steaming steak. Malick grinned, half conscious as he cast his mind back to ensure he hadn’t been manipulated by Kilgrave to bring him here.

“What do you know about HYDRA?”

“Enemy of SHIELD – Red Skull, Nazi’s, squid logo.” Kilgrave nonchalantly responded, before taking another bite of the steak. He felt his teeth sink into the cooked flesh, as the flavour oozed and dripped into his mouth.

“The basics then?” Malick joked hesitantly, receiving only a nod and forced scoff by Kilgrave. “HYDRA’s mission was to overthrow world governments. Seize control. Establish dominance and power. But Schmidt was much more open minded than politics and science fiction.” Malick was calm as he spoke, pride bolstered from his gleaming eyes and pursed lips. Ready to detail the fascinating history of HYDRA, he waited for some confirmation that his words were listened to.

Kilgrave nodded his head. “Like what?”

“Many things.” Malick remarked vaguely, grinning with arrogance as he did so. “One thing that HYDRA did, was continual the cult rituals that fed a being called an Inhuman.” Malick spoke with the voice of a story teller, excited and calm, his voice trailing off when reaching a point. Kilgrave once again glanced up, now with some frustration, and nodded. “An Inhuman is a person who has undergone terrigen-”

“Ward has told me.” Kilgrave calmly interjected, his voice quiet as he spoke with immediacy. “But do carry on.”

“An Inhuman was born on Earth so long ago, and he was banished. He was feared and hated, and those he was destined to take control of, thwarted his plans and sent him through a portal. At the time, they didn’t care if it was hell, or another plane, or heaven. All they knew was that they hid ridded the Inhuman. But people believed that the Inhuman was destined to rule the Earth, and a group began to worship him. Began rituals in a castle in England, and those sacrifices became more consistent. In the 2000s, a strand of NASA even sent astronauts through.

“For a long time, we waited for the Inhuman to travel to us – but something has changed. Because our reports suggest that Jemma Simmons, a SHIELD agent, was taken through and has returned. She has done the impossible and returned back through – and although they destroyed the portal, we have our own makings of one.” Malick’s smirk was powerful. Complimenting his eyes, it told Kilgrave a lot of what he needed to know. Not only was there more to say, but there was more to consider – more to lead on with.

Kilgrave sat up. His eyes narrowed, a smile etched itself across his face. His curiosity had been piqued. After all, the notion of an ancient, banished creature with powers, fed through rituals and sacrifices, seemed to stir a darkness in him. An eagerness. A morbidness. Kilgrave considered the idea – the notion of a power. He wondered if an Inhuman could be controlled – if a creature like this could be controlled.

Leaning forward, tightly brandishing the knife with some savagery, Kilgrave gleamed. “I assume you need something from me in this… endeavour?” Greed gluttoned in his eye. Power. The all-consuming appeal of power teemed in his eyes. He stared across the table, taking another bite of steak, feeling the tender beef rip as he chewed.

Malick grinned. A smirk played across his face, tugging the corners of his lips. “Obviously it would be foolish of me to believe that you would help out of the goodness of your heart.” Taking a cut of his steak, Malick paused and considered his next words. “But your powers mean that anything we want, we can have.”

“So long as I agree.”

“Of course.” Malick bowed his head with courtesy, knowing full well that residing beneath their conversation was the implication that Malick was manipulatable. His mind was feeble underneath the power of Kilgrave. “HYDRA has resources around the world.” Malick flippantly continued, after practically inhaling a thin slice of steak, “Pick a country.”

Kilgrave raised his eyebrow. “Meaning?”

“You want to be King Kilgrave the First of Great Britain? Go ahead.” Malick’s face still brimmed. “Repair that waning relationship between England and Wales. Return the British Empire across the globe.”

“You’re offering… political power?”

“I’m offering the resources to political power, sir.”

“I could walk straight into the White House right now if I wanted.”

“Sure – but how long could you last?” Malick pointed his knife, tilted his head and raised his eyebrow.

Kilgrave’s instinct and arrogance answered in his mind, but logically he thought it out. His mind played out the situation. Swanning into the oval office, taking control of President Ellis. But then he considered the people who would be told beyond the White House, the army and the troops and the superheroes who would all be conscious of how to protect themselves.

As Malick watched Kilgrave consider his response, he took the chance to enjoy some of the final remnants of the succulent meat before him.

“Okay.” Kilgrave commented, now more inclined to reason with Malick’s thoughts. “What’s the plan?”

“Acquiring the pieces to the portal are not exactly tricky. Really, drawing out SHIELD will be the trickiest part. Once we have them, and Jemma Simmons’ knowledge on returning from the portal, we’ll be golden.”

“So, I’m to be your puppet master.” There was a mocking tone to Kilgrave’s voice as he toyed with the knife and fork in his hands. Kilgrave’s narrow eyes stared with sternness, investigating the man carefully and cautiously. He watched as Malick chuckled, a soft amusement gleaming in his eyes, whilst a tactical storm raged in his mind.

Shaking his head, Malick remarked, “Not a puppet master, no.” He took a sip of his wine, feeling as it slid down his throat. “An ally. An essential piece to the grander puzzle at play. The puzzle we’re in charge of making.”

A faint sneer twisted on Kilgrave’s lips, as he considered the response. “I’ve spent my time planning and strategising, Malick. It all failed.” His mind flashed back to Jessica, the plan he had laid out, only to have his plan ruined by an assailing ninja star throwing his plans off track. Kilgrave leaned back in his chair and twirled his knife between his fingers, focusing on it, as he ran his tongue against his teeth to try and relieve a trapped piece of gristle caught inbetween his teeth. “But this Inhuman…  If he’s as powerful as you say, and somehow… controllable, then it could be worth my time.”

“Controllable?” Malick asked, the word tensely hanging in the air for a moment. It lingered above them toying with their mind. Malick shook his head, a disconcerting smile written across his face. “This Inhuman is beyond mere control. You must understand that has something you don’t, which is influence. He doesn’t just bend mind and will, he consumes the mind. He is the master of Inhumans – you could not seize control of that. He’s practically a god in the making, Kilgrave. And that is the legacy that we are continuing.”

Kilgrave’s grip on the knife tightened. His eyes darkened and his glare grew more powerful “Is that why you’re so eager to throw a welcome-home party for this old beast? You and HYDRA want to worship him?”

“Hardly.” Malick chuckled once again, amused by the small misconception that had been brewed in his words. “We want to unleash him. Let him reshape our world, and we will stand by his side and left to rule. Dominance over mankind, just as we wanted all those years ago. We both know that power doesn’t come from brute force or armies. It’s fear – influence over the weak.”

“And you say you’re not Nazis.” Kilgrave shrugged his shoulders and bore a mocking tone as he glared across the table, raised eyebrows as Malick sighed.

“We’re not.” Malick shook his head. “Nazis were far more selective, far more single minded. Sure we share similar goals of world dominance, fear and power. But we don’t see the world in those small categories.”

Kilgrave considered the words, “Look, I didn’t go to school, but I know Nazis when I see them.”

Malick sighed heavily. “Political ideology from seventy years ago, Kilgrave. We live in a world of Gods, superheroes and mutants. We live in a world of constant war and famine and child labour. We live in a world of misery. What purpose do we have in applying political ideology from seventy years ago to a day-and-age where genocide could happen in the middle of Asia right now, and we wouldn’t bat an eyelid, because we’re too busy admiring the Avengers tower?”

Kilgrave paused.

He didn’t reply at first. Instead, his mind considered the route he was taking. No matter Malick’s speech, the Nazi ideology and imagery and history of HYDRA irked him, but in the end it, it was a means to an end.

“So, you think you can control this Inhuman? Share his power?”

“I think we can control his rise.” Malick spoke softly and smoothly, the tension dissipating as he gained control of the situation. “When he rises, we can be at the forefront. You can wield influence on an unimaginable scale. Nations will bow to you – us – in worship.”

“And you want us to be… partners in this little crusade? What about the rest of HYDRA?” Kilgrave distracted his attention from the throbbing desire of power. Beneath his expression of critical thinking was a dark, calculating smile. A hunger beneath his face grew.

“They’ll find their fate depending on how wise they are.” There was a pause. A moment of reflection for both parties to observe each other, process the conversation, and find a new line of assault. It was warfare, conducted over steak. “Let’s not pretend that we don’t both have our own goals – you want control, I want HYDRA’s purpose fulfilled. Our ambitions compliment each other perfectly.”

“And when the Inhuman is here, what’s to stop me from taking control of him?” Kilgrave leaned forward, rested his elbow in the table and murmured. Malick’s eyes met with Kilgrave’s gaze. The smile on his face didn’t falter, but there was a heaviness to the air.

“That would be at your own risk. If you believe you can tame a god, Kilgrave, by all means… try.” There was a threat in Malick’s voice, and some others left unspoken. Kilgrave considered the possibilities but ignored them.

He raised his glass of wine and swirled it. His mind was busy ticking away. Calculating. Scheming. Plotting. “You have yourself a partner in this. But don’t mistake my alliance for loyalty. If this Inhuman is more trouble than it’s worth…”

Malick interrupted, “I wouldn’t expect anything less, from yourself or an Englishman. This is a partnership of convenience, after all. Nothing more.”

“Good.” Remarked Kilgrave, smiling with genuine amusement. “I like it when things are simple.”

*

Stepping out into the cool air of night, Kilgrave slammed the door of the black SUV. He glanced down the empty street, seeing safehouses and worn houses, each aged into utter disrepair. The building was decadent, untouched for years, and only guarded by two men. Both wore nothing that gave away their position as security guards, instead donning hoodies and tracksuit bottoms, concealing weapons beneath.

Kilgrave glanced across the street as Malick stood outside, waiting for Kilgrave since he was second out. His leather shoes slapped against the ground, echoing through the deserted streets. The two guards glanced towards Kilgrave, before catching an expression in Malick’s eye which told them all they needed to know.

Whilst the two men attended to the doors, Kilgrave glanced back to Malick. “Why Germany? I thought you were trying to avoid the Nazi look.”

Malick shook his head. “Stucker had various safehouses around the world. HYDRA lost many storage places to SHIELD intel, so he kept this one off the radar. There’s a few scattered around the world, but this is the central piece of the portal.” Absently nodding his head, Kilgrave’s glazed over. The information passed over him, with very little being absorbed.

Kilgrave followed behind Malick, who nodded at the men and thanked them in German. Kilgrave nodded too, although not using the words to express himself. The door locked behind them and a heavy thud rang out throughout the tunnelled corridors.

The corridors were filled with neatly packed wooden crates, each labelled and assorted into specific areas. An intrigue and curiosity and innate nosiness itched away in Kilgrave’s mind. Yet he kept a focus. He knew what he was here for, and asking questions about the cluttering crates was distracting from that goal.

They continued through, passing under the tunnels of peeling wallpaper and rotting walls. Under dim lights that were a miracle to still be flickering, which cast shadows which were stronger than the infrastructure of the building itself. Kilgrave looked around suspiciously, more anxious that he’d be trapped under collapsing rubble than being betrayed. He looked at the pipes that ran along the walls, and the aging of the rusting metal.

“It’s been a while since even I’ve been down here.” Malick remarked, grimacing at the sight.

“Charming. Really makes one feel at home.”

Malick smirked. “It’s not about aesthetics.”

At the very end of was a heavy metal door, which was a dark silver and bore some contrast in not looking as ancient as the rest of the building. Malick covertly typed a code into a keypad beside it and heaved open a door, to a room packed with larger crates in a more unorganised fashion.

What stuck out to Kilgrave first was a safe. Amongst the wooden crates, there was nothing to give the sign of security. Most boxes could be cracked open with no less then a rusting crowbar or the pronged end of a hammer. Yet the lock was even more secure than the door.

Malick sauntered over to the safe and unlocked it, grinning as he did so. “Today, we take a step towards the future.” Retrieving a collection of items from the safe, including a dossier and some fragments of tech, Malick’s attention was fixed on a glass case. Inside, held perfectly, was a cuboid rock. It was black, ragged surface and almost shiny under the dim light above. Malick’s eyes gleamed. “This is what will bring the Inhuman back to and reshape the world, and we’ll have everything we need to bring the world to its knees.”

“Bring it to your knees, you mean.” Remarked Kilgrave coldly, his voice tinged with sarcasm as his eyes glared across the room. Some allure was drawn towards the contents of the case, but primarily he stared at Malick. “You love your non-Fascist world domination, don’t you?”

Ignoring the jab, Malick continued his exposition. “This rock is more than a relic. It is the history of HYDRA.” He tapped the glass case and grinned from ear to ear. “It’s the start of a new era. When combined with it’s brothers, and exposed to a high enough frequency, the rock practically melts into a liquid. A portal. The science is beyond me, but the facts speak for themselves. Every generation, for a hundred generations, has sent men through that portal in the hopes of feeding or freeing it. But now, we’re building an army for it to command.”

Kilgrave raised his eyebrows, somewhat disappointed that the relic they had travelled to find was just a rock. “That’s it?” He asked condescendingly. “Travelled all this way, built up all this tension, for a bit of space rock?”

Malick shook his head, anger crossing his face. “No. Kilgrave. This rock is the endnote of a long chapter. We will free the creature, the Inhuman, that has been trapped on the other side. We will do what Jemma Simmons did, return through the portal, which nobody has ever been able to do. And you and I will rule at it’s side.”

Kilgrave observed the box. Malick sensed hesitation and so handed the dossier. Information filled throughout – written in Latin as a barrier for access, but not impossible.

“Malick…” Kilgrave spoke quietly, his voice calm. Quiet. Composed. Arrogant. “Tell me, where are the other pieces.”

“Four cities: Moscow. Belfast. Bahawalpur. Kisangani.” Malick spoke instinctively, unaware of the manipulation that made him utter the words.

Kilgrave grinned. “Is security as easy as this place?”

“That’s not-” Malick began, before being met with a sternness in Kilgrave’s voice.

“Tell me.”

“Fairly similar. Strucker wanted his safehouses kept silent.”

Kilgrave paused. A shift in power was felt in the room, with the gravity of a tectonic plate shifting out of place. Malick glanced cautiously, now noticing a flicker in his eyes. A lack of interest in sharing power, the absence of delusion. Kilgrave felt a brimming anger seething in his mind, rejecting the proposal of being second in command to some resurrected deity.

“I’ve never really been a team player.” Kilgrave chuckled to himself. “Last time I helped a team with their mystic cult bullshit, I almost bled out from a ninja star to my side and the whole world thinks I’m dead. So this time, I’m saying no.” Malick’s eyes narrowed. A faint flicker of suspicion grew into a horrid realisation of betrayal. Before he could utter anything, Kilgrave’s tongued dripped with instruction. “Give me your gun.”

Malick complied, threw the pistol across the room and watched as it fell in Kilgrave’s hand. His face turned pale, a sheet of guttural horror. Kilgrave’s betrayal was expected, but Malick was more annoyed that he hadn’t prepared for it so early.

“Kilgrave, if you do this, you’ll be making a big mistake.”

“Says the man wanting to bring through an Inhuman that’s been eating people for a hundred generations?” Kilgrave shook his head. “I expect a few people every generation isn’t enough for this Inhuman – so should anything go wrong when this starts, then I’ll put my hands together and pray to God for forgiveness... or something.”

Malick's composure cracked, his eyes widening in panic. “You wouldn't dare!” He spat, anger flaring behind the fear. His instincts kicked in, glancing towards an exit as he calculated his escape. “You can’t do anything without me. None of this plan works without me.”

Kilgrave’s cruel grin gleamed with power. “Do I? Or is this just another piece of your sales pitch?”

“No. We could work together. I have knowledge and resources!” Desperation began to rose in his voice, spilling across the dirtied floor beneath them.

“But you also have the past. All those failures and struggles and betrayal. You think I wouldn’t do my homework. A man who worked on the Council during the Battle of New York?”

There was a quickening to Malick’s pulse as the reality of the situation dawned on him. “You think you can just walk out? HYDRA will hunt you down. They’ll find you, Kilgrave. They’ll kill you.” His retort was met with a step by Kilgrave, whose voice barely rose above a whisper.

“Let them try.” He began with confidence. “1945.” Kilgrave retorted with awesome speed. “Nazi leader shoots himself in his bunker as the enemy forces pull their way in. Except now, the Soviets aren’t here. You just have me, in the bunker, and I don’t trust you with your gun… So they’re wrong, history doesn’t always repeat itself. Hand me the rock.” Once again, Malick complied handing the case to Kilgrave, whose breath hit has face to prevent any dubious action. “Don’t move yet.”

“Stop this – I can help you way quicker.”

“True – but I will follow on your legacy. Working from the shadows.” Kilgrave smiled, his stubble in direct eyeline of Malick, who trembled slightly in fear. Kilgrave leaned in towards the man, who had been frozen still. Perfectly unmoveable like a statue. “Do me a favour, wreck the room and then kill yourself – make it a real mystery for when SHIELD come hunt you down. Nazi leader in a German bunker. How fitting.”

Chapter Text

In this universe, as events transpire into war between spies, the spectre of Kilgrave seemingly lasts longer than any castle tower. Jessica Jones stands at a crossroads between fury and fear. Her child lost to HYDRA’s plans, and Kilgrave’s dark shadow returning to the forefront. Players converge and pawns move in their dances of corruption and deceit, but the secret whisper of rebellion by Jessica Jones roots a downfall. I observe these moments, unable to interfere. Only seeing the binding threads drawing the game to a close.

***

Jessica listened as a flurry of activity burst across the HYDRA base. Excitement seethed through the grins of men and women, who each prepared themselves for a battle ahead. The air buzzed with tension, something even the most seasoned soldiers could feel. An unease that conflicted with intrigue and excitement and fascination.

Stood in their control room, with a map laid across a table with a detailed route to the castle and surrounding woods, Grant Ward and Kebo discussed the strategy. The placement of forces and structure of tents. They discussed firearms, and camps and extra power they might need should their placements turn nasty. Their preparations were aided by their instructions from the ‘Boss’. The unnamed HYDRA agent who had slipped into Malick’s vacuum of power that had been left when he disappeared.

The ‘Boss’ had set up instructions – explained that HYDRA’s new focus centred around an ancient creature HYDRA had worshipped – opening a portal to return it and succumb to it’s power. Explanations were lengthy and rebuttal seemed futile, especially so early in the resurrection of HYDRA, so Ward had spent most of his time waving away his hand to the instructions and following them with little attention paid.

Jessica Jones entered the room cautiously, shutting the door behind her to dampen the buzz as it disrupted the calm of the room. With her arms cross, she stared vacantly and anxiously into the room. Her expression was neutral, perfectly masking the disdain she felt for the pair. Her role perfectly acted – a HYDRA agent, ready for combat. With unnatural strength for a woman of her thin stature, she was a key asset of manpower for this resurrected HYDRA, a claim she grew protective of.

“You ready for this?” Kebo asked, glancing towards her with a hint of scepticism lingering in her eyes. His gruff cockney voice continued, mirroring the gruffness of his eyes. “It’s more than just scaring off tourists.”

Letting out a dismissive scoff, Jessica glanced across the room. “I can handle myself. Or have you forgotten Budapest already?” She remarked, referencing one of their most recent operations in which she had forced a pretence of extracting SHIELD information, crafted perfectly to ‘unintentionally’ mislead HYDRA into a SHIELD exploit. Ward smirked, barely looking up from the map, as his eyes focused with sincere intent.

“Good – because when we hit this castle, I can’t have anyone doubting the seriousness about this. The Boss wants everything ready for when he arrives. Jessica,” His eyes locked with hers as he straightened his body to a stiff straight stature. “You’re on guard duty for the scientists and engineers. The Boss says they’re the most important, so make sure nobody gets in or out without clearance.”

‘The Boss’ was a phrase which turned Jessica’s stomach into a twisted ache. The name of the man had had never been given, a fact that irritated Ward and Kebo enough, let alone Jessica as she hunted down information. She took a deep sigh, wanting to question everything further.

“What are we expecting at the castle?” Jessica asked, trying her best to distract her attention away for the churning feeling in her stomach.

“SHIELD will show up eventually. They always do.” Wandering around the table, he spoke with some essence of nostalgia. He reflected on his days on that side of the field for a moment, trapped in deep thought, before snapping his eyes back across to Kebo and Jessica. “But before that there’s equipment to set up and… guests to welcome.

“Guests?” Jessica asked, challenging the omniety of his cryptic words. A glee written across his face gleamed. Kebo shot her a brief suspicious glance, noticing the second question being posed. There was a brief flicker of doubt that surged through his mind, promptly dismissed by some naïve sense of optimism.

“Agents of SHIELD.” He remarked coldly.

“And you think they’ll come willingly?” Jessica asked, her question less interrogative and more sceptical now, thus avoiding another layer of suspicion.

Ward paused. He glanced across the room, his eyes falling upon Jessica. The dim light shone down upon her, whilst the lingering silence was filled with contemplation. The truth simmered on the edge of his tongue – the answer was absolutely amazing and nonsensical and foolproof. The very notion tugged the corners of his mouth into a grin of pure and utter joy. Sadistic, unsettling joy.

Ward wandered across the room, standing before Jessica. “Imagine if you could have people do anything they wanted – what would you do?”

Jessica felt a harsh pain pang in her heart, as trauma seeded itself throughout. Her mind thought back to Kilgrave, the devil incarnate. An asshole. A cockroach. Scum of the earth.

“Tell my neighbours to shut the hell up when they’re having bad sex.” She lied. She’d never had any problems with her neighbours, but delivered with a tone of jokingly serious sarcasm, she got away without a genuine answer. As Ward chuckled and nodded his head, he turned his head back to Kebo, a flash of humour in his eyes as Kebo shared the smile written across their face.

“Now imagine if you had the power to control anyone and everyone.” Jessica’s heart sank, her mind gripping onto Kilgrave. His smile, his grin, his smell, the feel of his suit, the scratchiness of his beard. She felt his voice clawing in her mind, urging escape. Urging worship and love. “The only downside being, you’re British and you only like the colour purple.” Ward chuckled, amused by himself, before glancing back to Jessica.

Her face was pale. Far more pale than usual. Even under the faint light, the translucence of his skin was clear, as her hands trembled and legs began to give way. Her mind began to flash with small snippets of the months she couldn’t remember. Various moments, from cooking and eating to cleaning to punching to waiting for him in bed. All instructed and demanded. All forced.

“You alright?” Kebo asked, noticing as Jessica began to back away. “What’s the matter?”

“The boss…” Jessica tried to regain her strength, muttered the four street signs in her mind but it didn’t work. Her body lost control of itself. This time, it wasn’t under the influence of herself or Kilgrave, but a grasp of trauma and terror seized her. Rattled her around. Whispered in her ear. “The boss is Kilgrave.” She uttered, her eyes shooting up towards Ward, flicking to Kebo.

They stared confused, as the woman before them seemed to be having a breakdown. Her knowledge of Kilgrave puzzled them, but they seemed to already know the answer to the question they next asked. “How do you know his name?”

Jessica gulped. The month of preparation and secrecy all lost within seconds. She was rumbled. Her face exposed. Kebo and Ward’s mind clicked with the same realisation. Pieces slotting together. A puzzle reforming.

Because Ward and Kebo had known about Jessica before. Jet black hair, thin, pale, wide eyes. Strong – inhumanly strong. Kilgrave had told them all about it when he first contacted HYDRA, but Ward never quite cared about Jessica. Hadn’t even asked to see a photograph – because his focus was on the man who could control anybody. His mind focused on revenge and rebuilding.

Yet now, stood before them was an inhumanly strong, thin and pale woman, with jet black hair, wide eyes and an daily adornment of the same leather jacket – who, in addition to all of those clues, was traumatised by the mere mention of Kilgrave.

It was that very moment, confusion vanished. Consumed by greed, thirst for power, and determination.

“Jessica Jones…” Ward grinned, finally speaking after his realisation. “You’re that god-damn Jessica Jones.”

Jessica struggled for breath, fighting the panic that seized her and striving for power over it. “Yes – Yes I am. And I know everything. I know about Operation Pandora. I know about your plan – and all I want to know, is where the hell is my child?”

Briefly lingering in the air unanswered, Jessica’s question was received more as a punchline than something to be addressed. Ward grinned, widening his mouth and slowly stepping forward. His eyes fixed on Jessica, with such an intensity in her eyes that it made her skin crawl. A tingle of unease shot down her back. “Your child?” The words hung in the air and dripped with mockery from Ward’s malicious grin. “You really think we’d just… hand over that information, Jones?”

The panic subsided. It didn’t vanish or cease, it still rattled in her heart, but she ignored that. Instead, she steadied herself, remaining calm despite the storm inside her. “If you don’t, I’ll make sure this whole operation falls apart before you even get the chance to get to England. After all, you know what I’m capable of.”

Uneasily shifting, Kebo’s hand instinctively shot towards his side. Her finger tips rubbed the metallic handle of his gun. Yet Ward held up his hand, stopping him. Kebo listened, new instinct driving him. “Easy Kebo. We wouldn’t want to waste a valuable asset just yet.”

Jessica’s panic now filtered into rage. All those times she was merely an object to Kilgrave were enough for her to resist such jeering eyes. Her fists clenched, every muscled tightened – but she waited, patiently, to unleash that anger.

“Kilgrave won’t be happy when he finds out you’ve been withholding information from him.” She played her only card. Her word against Wards. Kilgrave loved her, would trust her lies if told convincingly enough. “He wouldn’t be happy knowing you’ve been harbouring me. Plotting against him.” The smile faded from Ward’s face, which was enough of a joy to encourage Jessica to carry on.

“You’re bluffing.”

Jessica’s face and voice turned, almost into a parody of herself. “Trust me Kilgrave, I hate you as much as anyone. But these guys? Oh, ho. They hate you way more. Said they’d push you straight into that portal and let the sandstorm gnaw away at you.” Jessica promptly returned to herself as Ward took a step forward, adjusting her face and voice and stance. Sternness spilling into her expression. “Tell me where my child is.”

Silence stretched between them. “You think you’re so clever, don’t you?” He snarled, glaring angrily. “But you don’t have a clue what you’re dealing with.”

“Neither do you.” Jessica didn’t flinch. She locked her gaze with his. “But if you tell me now, I won’t care about all this cryptic space portal shit. I will be straight off to find my kid – and you don’t have to worry about what I say to Kilgrave.”

Ward hesitated. He glanced to Kilgrave, and glanced back down to Jessica’s clenched and trembling fist. He considered Jessica’s words for a moment, before wandering over towards his computer. She watched cautiously and suspiciously and wearily. Waiting for a trick – an alarm to blare or soldiers to storm in.

Yet Ward moved around some files and wandered back towards her with a USB clasped in his hands. “New Orleans. Everything you need is on there.” He said calmly.

***

Preparations had already been made for the arrival of SHIELD. Working from the shadows with the power of total manipulation meant that there was little difficulty in enacting his plan. Laying the scene of the castle was simple in truth, especially when HYDRA was so ready and determined.

The castle itself was abuzz. In its hundreds of years of existence, it had never seen such commotion displayed across its courtyards and towers. Camps were set up across it’s land, entrenching across the imposing woods, whilst technology and guards were neatly packed across the interior. Although the prime centrepiece was the tower, where it seemed that hundreds of scientists and guards and engineers fluttered excitedly. Truthfully, the room probably held twelve people, but the assortment of activity cluttered the room like a heavy figure snaking through the room.

Technology cramped the room with flashing computers and a heavy frame situated above the portal’s pit. In the centre was a deep pit, containing five neatly placed cuboids of alien stone. They stood tall like readied soldiers, waiting for their activation. Listening to the air, waiting for a frequency to burn through their ears and melt them into swirling portal goop.

To add to the chaos, Kilgrave soon arrived with the four Agents of SHIELD by his side. Their journey had been filled with the lengthy explanation of Malick’s betrayal, and his run around the world to various cities for the stones to make up the portal.

But the most important detail, the one that still rang through May’s ears, was the reveal that Ward was on his way. “Ward’s the one who got all the people together. Rebuilt HYDRA for me. Him and that little Kebo. It’s so nice to have competent staff who don’t need you there all the time.” Those were his exact words which May repeated in her head, constantly. The fact that Ward’s faction of HYDRA was reassuring for one reason.

They had a woman on the inside.

Jemma’s eyes watched the men preparing themselves for travel through the portal. Wearing uniforms of a beige camouflage design, and packing bags of water and equipment, they showed no fear in their eyes. In fact, they were prepared for the other side – unphased completely by the terrifying notion of a deadly planet lurking beneath the unformed portal.

The guards and scientists left the room, leaving the two preparing soldiers, Kilgrave and his SHIELD hostages waiting in the room. Kilgrave spoke to the two men quietly, his voice not captured from across the room, before turning back around to the four agents.

“When Coulson arrives, I’ll choose two of your agents to join my men. But first, I need some information from Jemma Simmons.” Kilgrave spun around, before his eyes laid upon Jemma. There was a moment of silence, whilst a hunger growled in his eyes. He observed her, his eyes seeing nothing but information squeezed into a beautiful woman. No match for the might and ferocity of Jessica Jones, but satisfying enough to the eye. “I need your knowledge of how to return home.”

“Fitz knows all of that.” She stated, conviction in her eyes. Kilgrave observed her, tempted to use his powers to manipulate her mind, before falling to accept what was told to him. “Anyone who goes to that planet will die. That thing on the other side drives people mad.” Jemma spoke with terror lacing her voice, her eyes observed the cables and the soldiers packing away.

Kilgrave grinned. His eyes now observing the slightest ringing of defiance in her words. “That ‘thing’ on the other side is a creature from hundreds of years ago, that a cult has been worshipping and sacrificing people to. Today, we end that.”

“Are you hearing yourself right now?” Mack interjected, his hands thrown around even despite the tight cuffs restraining him. “You want to bring a creature back through that portal? A creature that’s been eating people for centuries?”

“A weak Inhuman. Yes.” Kilgrave spoke with some bitterness as he glared towards Mack. “Imagine if that Inhuman – the very same Inhuman these fucking cultists have been performing rituals to – imagine if it was under my control. Controlling other Inhumans.” His voice was calm and strategic. His eyes glanced around the room, waiting with calm.

“And what happens when that creature turns out to be uncontrollable, and starts turning everyone crazy, or into dinner?” Daisy challenged, her eyes glaring stoically towards Kilgrave. Her words snapped Kilgrave’s attention towards her. His eyes locked onto hers, staring adamantly with fury and strategy and pride. She felt a shiver shoot down her spine, a panic and fear.

“Then I’ll have an army to hide behind.” He gestured towards them packing men and the agents themselves. “I expect SHIELD will send their little army. The Inhumans they have in reserve. Their top spies, and men with guns.” He threw his hands into the air and grinned, “Hell – Imagine if SHIELD need to call on the Avengers again! Steve Rogers at my mercy.”

“And to think, you’d do all of this because your girlfriend dumped you. Must’ve been a tough break up. Not for Jessica, she had friends to help her. You had nobody – in fact, you were dead.” May taunted, Her eyes staring with some intentional cruelty. Her words caught Kilgrave off guard. The bravado and arrogance vanished for a moment, slipped from beneath him. He now stood, emasculated and exposed. The cause for his evil slapped across his face in public.

“How do you know about Jessica?” May shrugged her shoulders. The growing smile vanished completely from Kilgrave’s face, as his expression hardened. Around the room, silence thickened. They each knew how Jessica had been involved in SHIELD – in fact, they each knew how she was even involved with HYDRA, but those details were more sacred.

May shrugged her shoulders, keeping her eyes fixed on Kilgrave as she kept her lips sealed from revealing anything. Kilgrave felt rage growing deep within him, burrowing itself further and further.

“Everyone other than Agent May here, leave and wait outside!” He demanded, with his words promptly being met by the unchallenged obedience of the room. The door sealed behind them, with the loud echo of the locking of the doors resonating throughout the room. Kilgrave’s attention snapped back to May, whilst an unsettling calmness permeated from his piercing gaze. “Now, let’s make this simple, shall we?” His voice dripped with a false kindness.

“I’m not going to tell you anything.” May stated, glaring with rebellion etched into her smile and defiance burning brightly in her eyes. Two glaring beauties of refusal, alluring Kilgrave with their power.

“I was hoping you’d be difficult.” Remarked Kilgrave, before leaning closer and letting his voice drop to a chilling tone which matched the twisting cruel grin growing across his face. Kilgrave continued with a quiet whisper, “Punch yourself in the face.”

Before May could even consider refusing, she felt her hand fly up and strike herself across the cheek with a sharp crack. The connection was loud, resonating through the room and exploding an excruciating pain across her jaw. Yet, despite the agony growing, her eyes fixed on Kiglrave’s. She refused to give him the satisfaction of pain. She resisted the sadistic desire that glimmered in his eyes.

“Again,” Kilgrave ordered once again, his eyes cold and his voice icy. The grin on his face faltered. “Harder.” This time, the strike of her knuckles across her face left a red and throbbing pain. Blood pooled in her mouth, where the inside of her lip had been cut by her teeth. She refused to show the pain once again. No sign of weakness. Kilgrave clapped his hands as though he were congratulating a pet for performing a trick.

“This is your plan?” She taunted. “Torturing myself? That’s just lazy.”

“No.” He shook his head, observing her face as it fixed on him. “I’m showing you that I am in control of everything… Rip a handful of hair out.” May paused and spat a drop of blood onto the floor. She felt her hand instinctively grab a handful of her own hair, before her mind replayed the order. She considered the order in the split second she was convulsed to do it, before her mind found a loophole.

Her eyes fixed on Kilgrave, before she lunged forward and attempted to rip out a handful of his. ‘Rip a handful of hair out’, he had instructed, with enough vagueness to compel May to act against him. Kilgrave splattered and trembled, ordering her to get off him before staggering back to his feet.

“I see.” He remarked, wiping down his suit. Kilgrave’s smile widened, his eyes sparkling with amusement. The panic and confusion that had become him just moments prior faded, and now he regained control. “Oh, dear. I’m afraid we’re going to be here for quite a while.” He tilted his head, considering his next words with malicious delight brewing in his eyes. “Break your left ring finger. Slowly.”

May replayed the instruction, but it had been carefully selected as to avoid a loophole. She was compelled to comply, gripping hold of her left ring finger with her forefinger and thumb clasped either side. They moved against her will, the tendons beginning to tighten as she began to bend the finger backward. The muscles strained in a fight against the movement, with pain shooting through her hand like fire. She felt the point a normal person’s pain tolerance would snap them against the action, as the bone began to give way, but she resisted. She bit down hard and swallowed the scream that had attempted to claw its way out.

“Stop.” Kilgrave’s instruction was sudden, with the pain raging through her. It lingered, burning, her throat wanting to scream. The finger had reached a breaking point, ready to snap with a tiny bit more force applied, the bone would’ve crunched. “You know, I could just tell you to talk. Make you spill all the secrets locked away in that mind of yours – but that’s rubbish. Lazy. I want to see how far you could be pushed.” He leant in, his hot breath a carrying a venomous whisper. “Let’s play a game. Confess how you know about Jessica… or I’ll have you gouge one of those eyes out.”

May paused. Her breath caught in her throat. She could feel the weight of his command, still clasping down her finger, feeling the muscles strained to their limit.

“I’d rather die,” She hissed.

“Oh, I don’t want you to die…” He said, almost gently. “I want you to suffer.”

“Operation Pandora.”

Kilgrave’s eyes glistened with intrigue, replacing sadistic pleasure. “What’s that? A SHIELD thing?”

“No.” May stated coldly, now noticing something. A cluelessness. An absence of knowledge – a gaping pit that exposed a weakness Kilgrave didn’t know he had. She smirked.

“What is it?”

“Your legacy.”

“What does that mean?” Kilgrave’s breath was now bated. Angry. It seethed from his teeth and lips. “Tell me!” He shouted now, his venom spouted in her face.

“Your child – the one Jessica had. HYDRA – Ward’s HYDRA – abducted it. Took it. Set up four projects.”

Kilgrave stood, stunned. Shocked. Confused. His mind raced through everything he knew – the knowledge he’d collected. Everything he knew about HYDRA, the history and aliens and Inhumans and politics and schemes, and yet this had flown beneath his radar. Leaving him a fool, bewildered and stood gawping, his mind racing to collect the knowledge. “But-” He didn’t want to admit the truth. The fact that Ward had told him the child died. The fact he continued his crusade against SHIELD with some plot of vengeance. The fact that he was caught out on a key detail.

“That doesn’t explain how you know about Jessica. You have no reason to know her. Tell me.” He spoke quickly yet calmly. Panic toning a layer of his voice, but the rest was shielded.

“You know how, Kilgrave.” May answered, choosing her words carefully. They were the truth. She knew, that Kilgrave knew, what she knew. “Jessica helped us. And in all honesty, I have no idea where she is now. But she and Matt are the only people immune to you, and we will use that to make sure that everything you do here fails.”

“Immune?” Kilgrave laughed. “Jessica’s immunity is possible – but Matt is still weak. Still vulnerable.”

“But…” May spoke carefully, yet confused. Her eyes suspicious as she looked towards him. “He resisted you – he said he was able to resist you.”

Kilgrave laughed, already provided enough information. His laugh was more of a cackle, a menacing cry for attention and taunting and jeering. “You still haven’t got it, have you? You prance around the world like you own it, but you still can’t put two and two together?”

“What do you mean?”

“You can’t even detect your own fieldwork!” The cackle broke out again. “I never died, May! Matt never resisted me. Fisk never smashed my face in. How do you trick a blind man? Manipulate his senses of smell and hearing. How do you trick a politician? Spyware.”

Chapter Text

There are few places in the world I would go when it begins to end. Trish’s penthouse, or wherever she lives, would be one. My old house, if I had nothing left. Or Matthew Murdock’s place. Because that place is a place built on hope – a hope that blinds you to the thin peeling paint on the walls and the half-dead potted plant that you forget and pretend to water.

If anybody needed to know that the bastard Kilgrave was still roaming the world, it was Karen and Matt. And if anybody could help make sure he is truly, and finally, dealt with, it’s the real Devil of Hell’s Kitchen. Because I was convinced Kilgrave was dead, but I should’ve known better. I always do -that’s the problem, knowing too much. Sometime, ignorance really is bliss – but bliss isn’t on my table. It never has been.

***

As Jessica stood at the doors to the office of Nelson and Murdock: Attorney’s At Law, she felt a resonating emptiness pit itself in her stomach. The kind of emptiness that forms in the presence of guilt or uncertainty or terror. The brief window in which knowledge is held, and the effects of said knowledge is not relayed.

Opening the door, Karen Page smiled with joy. “Jessica!” She expelled as relief crossed her face, excited to see Jessica. Karen had devoted so much time in her life to saving and preserving Jessica’s life in thanks for the rescue from Kilgrave’s clutches. But this very expression buried the emptiness deeper. The pit deepened. Guilt grew. Reluctance blossomed. “Come inside – Matt, Foggy, Jessica’s here!” Perhaps the happiness that overcame Karen had blinded her from noticing the clear sombre expression that plastered itself on Jessica’s face.

Jessica stepped into the office, noting the similarity to her own – an apartment converted into an office, cheaply made, with enough attention to keep the lights on. She watched as Karen ran to the door on the left, pushing open the door to retrieve Matt, whilst the door to her right swung open with a curious Foggy popping his head out in intrigue.

Yet, Foggy was first to notice the sombre look. The shifty eyes, the unfettered frown. Then Matt noticed her racing heartbeat, and Karen clocked onto her expression.

“Jessica… what’s the matter?” Karen finally asked, racing across the room as her breath quickened.

“You look likes you’ve seen a ghost.” Foggy chuckled nervously.

“It’s- It’s-” She struggled to find the words. Ward’s face and exposition replayed in her mind. The smile, dark and powerful and twisted. Yet her sentence didn’t need her words to finish it. As Karen guided her to a chair, feeling her trembling hands and legs slowly about to give way, Matt interjected.

“Kilgrave’s back.” Matt’s voice was riddled with guilt – and much like a contagious plague, it spread across the room quickly. As shifty shameful eyes littered the room. Karen was first to avoid eye contact, with a pounding heartbeat that rang loudly in Matt’s ears, meanwhile Foggy glanced across cautiously.

Observing the room, whipping her head back from staring at Matt in fury and confusion, she noticed the expressions of Foggy and Karen. Their speechless eyes spoke a thousand words, one conspiracy lingering around the room with a potent fact – they all knew. “You-” Jessica’s difficulty to catch the words continued as she glanced around. Whilst Foggy knowing didn’t effect her too much, the fact that Karen and Matt both knew felt like a tormenting betrayal. “How?” She finally asked, avoiding the absence of words that fell from her tongue. She flicked her eyes between Karen and Matt.  

Although she spoke little, she wanted to question how Matt could keep this from her – knowing everything that was happening at SHIELD. Whilst a betrayal from Karen dug deeper, because the pair had been victims to Kilgrave in intimate ways that flooded her mind with horrible images of the absence of control.

“He visited me.” Matt spoke quietly. “A few weeks ago-”

“A few weeks ago?” Jessica shouted in rage, abandoning the struggle for words. Part of her was willing to accept that Matt had known all along, or that Matt had learnt of it within the past day like she had – but the reveal being somewhere in the middle irritated the fading part of leniency she was feeling.

“Jessica, he visited me one night. A night I had blacked out – found myself having beaten a man to death.” Matt’s admittance of that fact was painful, met with unease from Karen and Foggy who glanced to one another nervously for a moment, before composing themselves to listen. “Then I found that his suit – the one he wore when Fisk killed him – it was brand new. And I realised that he had a plan this whole time – that there was something wrong with that day.”

“And you didn’t think to tell me this?” Jessica’s voice was quieter now. Absent was rage, and now only calm terror was present. She saw the guilt and fear in Matt’s expressions. Even beneath the black shaded glasses, his eyes told a story of terror. “We could’ve helped you – SHIELD could’ve helped.”

“SHIELD?” Foggy and Karen interjected, confused as they glanced towards Matt. Matt grinned uncomfortably, now finding himself amongst a growing spindling of a web of lies. He stammered, unsure which words gave a reasonable explanation for his lie, or the situation.

Jessica, however, was sure. “Matt started working for a small band of SHIELD which still survives.” She spoke coldly, apathetic to the fallout which may last further on.

“Since when?”

“Since…” Matt cleared his throat, growing more nervous as he sensed the seething anger and frustration and confusion which sifted through the room. “Look, okay, I lied. I lied about sorting out a case somewhere else, because an old friend from my childhood needed my help saving Inhumans.”

“In-what?” Foggy exclaimed, agitated. “Matt, what else have you lied to us about?”

“Yeah, Matt, what else?” For a moment, Jessica enjoyed the retort she made. There was satisfaction in wielding a power over Matt, but as Matt grew more and more visibly uncomfortable, to a point he began to retract into himself, Jessica knew she needed to use more than cynicism.  “Listen – Kilgrave is about to open the portal that Simmons came through. We need to warn SHIELD, and go over there and help them. Because you and I are the only people immune to him.”

“I’m not immune.” Matt spoke softly. “I didn’t resist Kilgrave – I couldn’t have.”

“Well in that case, you just need something to protect yourself from inhaling his virus.” Jessica now commandeered the room, swivelling around to Karen and Foggy and handing them a USB. “HYDRA gave me this – it should have details on my child, but I expect HYDRA will have quickly changed the information. But whatever is on there is a starting point – that’s your job while Matt and I are gone, understood?”

“Your… your child?” Karen asked apprehensively, a shudder of terror passed over her. “Is the father…” She scarcely wanted to complete the question, the name itself now branded taboo, let alone the very notion that she was proposing.

“Wait, did you say portal?” Foggy commented, his mind back tracking through the conversation.

“When we’re back, Matt and I will explain everything.” Jessica spoke reassuringly, smiling towards them both politely, before swivelling back around to Matt. “Coulson’s waiting for you.”

“This is a bad idea.” Matt replied nervously, although his retort was promptly met by Jessica who grabbed him by the arm and hauled him from his spot. “My suit is back at home.”

“Which isn’t too far from here, let’s go.”

***

SHIELD had no option but beckon to Kilgrave’s call. It wasn’t manipulation that drove their obedience, but fear of uncertainty. From what Coulson explained to Jessica, as stood aboard the hefty ship of the Zephyr One, Kilgrave had four agents. Each valuable members of the team, who regardless of value needed rescuing. Added onto that was the unpredictability of Kilgrave and the growing powers of HYDRA.

The Zephyr One soon landed near the English castle. It wrecked trees nearby as it landed, blasting them away with it’s powerful engines, disrupting the HYDRA military tents that had been quickly and efficiently set up.

On board the Zephyr One was the rest of the Agents of SHIELD and some rescued Inhumans. Hunter was prepared to go in guns blazing, but Coulson calmed him down. He considered a tactical route – knowing it was unwise to send an entire force into a warzone where the enemy can control anything.

Instead, the only ones to enter the castle so visibly were Coulson, Fitz and Hunter. Matt, Jessica and Bobbi were given alternative routes, whilst the Inhumans were kept as backup. It was a strategic dispersal, ensuring that Coulson’s group were at the forefront of the focus. Kilgrave’s devious grin smiled upon them, hopefully blissfully unaware of Matt’s group sneaking around for a tactical advantage.

In fact, Coulson’s secret operation was quite literally underground. The three were dispatched to set up explosives beneath the tower, just in the hopes that they could be used as some tactical advantage.

The trio of Matt, Jessica and Bobbi navigated ancient tunnels beneath the castle. Stone bricks cradled in carefully spun cobwebs, with torch scones unused in centuries. Spiders and rats lingered in crevices, hiding under the torchlight of the trio. Above them, within the surface level of the castle, footsteps and wheels could be heard. A buzz of technology reached down towards Matt, piercing his ears slightly.

“What happened between everybody and Ward?” Jessica queried. Her footsteps joined the echoing sounds of their journey, clopping of their soles as they traversed through the narrow tunnels. Neither Bobbi nor Matt, who was busy leading their journey based on careful listening, turned around to Jessica. Instead, each of the trio paid full attention to journeying through the encamped walls.

“A lot of things.” Bobbi explained succinctly summarising the previous two years of espionage and conflict. Jessica felt underwhelmed, but decided to wait. The ongoing silence was enough to extract the rest from Bobbi, who continued after sitting in the lingering silence for some time. “Ward used to be on the team – before I joined. He betrayed them all. He and May had a thing – then he and Daisy had a thing. Then he almost killed Fitz and Simmons by dropping them in the middle of the ocean. And then he tried to kill me. And tried to kill everybody else a couple other times I’m sure.”

“That’s why Hunter was so hellbent on killing him before then? For you?” Jessica asked, tilting her head as she tried to carve out an understanding of the situation.

“Hunter thinks like every other man – that a woman needs to be saved to gain her affection. But, like every other man, he’s wrong.” She spoke softly with a simmering affection. Some guilt resonated, alongside frustration and sadness and a complexity of emotions that fizzled from the divorce. “Sorry, no offence Matt.” Bobbi swiftly added, remembering they were being led through the tunnels by Matt.

“Look, I’ll be honest - the two men who have ever given me affection have been very complicated situations. Especially since one of them, we’re hunting down now. But he means well. He loves you – properly loves you.” Jessica’s observation made Bobbi blush. Quiet passed across them as Bobbi considered the notion – because she knew Hunter loved her, but it was inspiring to consider that others had seen it too.

“I love him too.” Bobbi remarked, halting for a moment. Matt paused too, apprehensively turning around whilst his attention fizzled elsewhere. Bobbi’s eyes met with Jessica, whose expression was a mixture of admiration with a dash of envy.

“Then make sure he knows it.” Jessica retorted quickly. “You’re both in these hectic lives – HYDRA is plotting your deaths like you’re pieces on a chess board. Don’t waste the time you have together.” There was sincerity in Jessica’s voice. A sense of impending doom too, perhaps, as the threat that Kilgrave posed loomed above them.

“I suppose you’re right…” Replied Bobbi, uncertain how to take the advice.

“Shh-” Matt interjected abruptly, holding his hand out for a moment of silence from the pair. His ears pricked to the voices upstairs. “They’re in the tower…”

*

“Welcome!” Kilgrave declared, proudly and arrogantly. His hands waved high in the air as a cackle left his mouth. Lined around the room were the four agents of SHIELD – May, Daisy, Simmons and Mack. They stood anxiously, their terrified faces fixed on Kilgrave, unwavering completely. “House rules – your friends here have each been commanded to die a slow and painful death should any of you do anything that threatens me or the opening of this portal. You’re all free to leave once the Inhuman from the other side is back. Oh, and no guns please. Get rid of them, please.”

Although the three agents entering the tower had all taken precautions, with breathing apparatus’ to filter out the virus that permeated the air with each spoken word from Kilgrave, they complied. Kilgrave was a control freak, a man who favoured power and dominance, and not feeding into an illusion of power at the very least dissatisfied him greatly.

In synchronised obedience, the three agents carefully planted their guns on the floor, staring suspiciously around them. They worried that being unarmed was a trigger for something else. Yet, nothing happened.

“Before you arrived, I explained the whole portal thing to your four agents here.” Kilgrave began to traipse around the room. His leather shoes slapping against the ground, each clop echoing throughout the tower and up into the nights sky. Stars glistened above, blissfully ignorant to the abomination of nature that was being summoned beneath. “To cut short Gideon Malick’s whole speel, HYDRA want an Inhuman from the other side of the portal to come over and rule the world. But I don’t want that – not exactly.”

“Yeah, and what exactly do you want?” Coulson interrupted, carefully staring across the room.

“The Inhuman on that side can control other Inhumans – but considering pretty Daisy here is controllable, I assume the Inhuman on the other side is too. Which then means, I could take control of an Inhuman that controls other Inhumans. Do with that what you please.”

“You want an army?” Coulson couldn’t stomach the thought of a man like Kilgrave controlling a horde of Inhumans. There was a panic in his gut, as he considered the ATCU’s dealings with Inhumans, as well as their layered connection to HYDRA.

“More than that, Coulson. I want a marching band!” He exclaimed, gleaming with the idea. “You Americans and your bloody parades. My army, when I have one, will be enough to empower my dear Jessica – as well as the whole conquering the world. But it will show Jessica that she doesn’t have to hide away…” There was a way the words were muttered by Kilgrave that uneased Coulson and the agents. A slither of knowledge that he shouldn’t have, only made worse by the fact that May’s face changed to an overwhelming expression of guilt. “Fitz will help my men to open the portal from the other side – naturally, if he refuses, Simmons will pluck out every strand of hair on her head, before using that gun Fitz has placed by his foot.”

“We can’t open that portal, Kilgrave. Not again – anyone who goes-”

“Anyone who goes to that planet will die!” Kilgrave shouted over Fitz, mocking Simmons as he did so. A cruel and malicious smile etched across his face as he did so. “I’ve heard it before and I really don’t care – you are going through that portal… and I’m sending May and…” He glanced around the room, cautiously. He observed the candidates. Coulson’s ferocity, Daisy’s powers, Simmons’ intelligence (coupled with her pre-existing knowledge), Mack’s brute force, or the intriguing allure of the man who hadn’t yet spoken. The rugged looking man, whose scruffy appearance appeared to be a choice with some benefit to his handsomeness. There was a rage in his eyes, a fight and purpose. “You.”

Kilgrave pointed towards Hunter, dawning a terror across his heart. His pulse quickened and cold sweat prickled the back of his neck. Terror pulsed through him, clenching his fists involuntarily.

“Hunter, wasn’t it?” Kilgrave continued, relishing in the fear that crossed Hunter’s eyes. “You’re going with May – two skilled agents alongside some HYDRA operatives. And, should either you deviate from my plan, let’s just say your friends here will suffer the consequences in the most… creative ways.”

With a low and defiant voice, Coulson stepped forward with a darkened expression “You don’t need to do this, Kilgrave. If you think for a second that-”

“Ah, ah, ah!” Kilgrave snapped, flicking a hand dismissively. “That’s enough from you! One more word out of you and I’ll have Daisy use that force power she has to rip Mack apart.” Across Kilgrave’s face was a proud smirk, watching as Coulson’s mouth snapped shut with silent fury.

Following Kilgrave’s statement, silence followed and an order for HYDRA engineers swarmed the room with activities. Scientists moved with perfect precision, wheeling equipment into the room and setting up the series of strange devices around the room. One engineer fiddled with a metallic console, with a buzz and whir of machinery filling the tower.

As the engineers continued their work on the various consoles and pieces of technology that littered the tower, Kilgrave’s eyes flicked back between the agents. “Soon enough, this portal is going to be fully-functional and you’ll step into a brand new, horrifying world.” His voice was laced with gleeful anticipation, savouring the beauty in the chaos that laid before him

Between Coulson and Fitz was a shared darting of eyes. A silent communication of urgency, a subtle nod transferred between them, with some hopes that they could find a way to trigger the explosives that lined the tower underfloor. Yet, as their eyes shifted, Kilgrave caught sight of them. His instincts almost detected the slight shift to determination and he grinned as he glanced between them.

“Oh, don’t think about trying anything heroic. Remember the risk – but I do appreciate your enthusiasm.”

“Kilgrave – please,” Simmons finally broke the quiet, as a buzzing and humming grew louder from the cramming tech that crowded the tower. “That planet is dangerous. It’s a sentient planet. It corrupts everything – it’s a doorway to something we cannot control.”

“That’s where you’re mistaken, Miss Simmons. I’m in control – I always am. Gift from mum and dad! Besides if that planet itself is alive, that’s just one more thing to bend to my will.”

As a heavy pounding vibration rocked through the room, bringing dust from the stone bricks and a piercing pain to the heads of everybody, three new people entered the room. Two unknown guards, dressed in army beige camouflage uniforms sauntered inside, whilst led by another man. A more rugged man, yet stoically handsome. Powerful in stance and posture, dark eyes and a piercing glare, with a powerful alluring smile.

“Ward…” Hunter murmured. Rage filled his body, and were it not for the observant eye of Kilgrave or the pounding headache from the technology, Hunter would’ve lunged forward.

“Ward here is guiding you! As well as Fitz – but from what I’m told, that’s just like the good old days!” The five positioned monolith blocks now began to goop. They each liquefied in uniform fashion, swirling around in a circular base and opening for the passers to travel through. Kilgrave clapped his hands together and sneered as he glanced around the room. His voice rang out over the commotion, “Step through my friends! You’re about to be the first humans to make a round trip to another world! Try to come back in one piece!” He chuckled darkly, staring with a glimmer of pride and sarcasm.

Hunter cast a final glance to Coulson, mouthing some words that Kilgrave couldn’t catch, before he stepped forward. May followed, only shooting the team a glance in her eyes. They dropped through the swirling black goopy portal. Simmons lunged forward and held onto Fitz hand for a moment, although Ward voluntarily interrupted the sweet moment with a cynical and sadistic grin plastered across his face, pushing Fitz away and watching him stumble through the portal.

As they finally passed through and the portal ceased, silence followed for a moment.

Uncertainty.

Fear.

Anxiety.

Yet, what followed was an uncertain clopping of footsteps. The enraged voice of Bobbi Morse cried out for Hunter, followed by two other pairs of feet. “Don’t send him thro-” Her voice was brought to an immediate stop when she entered the tower and found it lacking three of the agents she expected to see. Her horrified eyes glanced over to Kilgrave’s menacing smile.

Yet his smile only lasted for a few moments. Seconds, in fact, as his eyes instead fell upon Jessica. Awe and shock grasped hold of him as he stared at the most beautiful woman he knew. Stood here, in his hour of triumph. “Jessica…” An onslaught of memories hit Jessica as her eyes fell upon. Him. A tsunami of trauma. Painful months seized her and trembled her insides. Everything she hated and feared stood before her – and all she could do was stand motionless. With the portal closed, Kilgrave was a step closer to succeeding. “Did you miss me?” His voice was cold. Powerful. Enough to enrage every fibre within her body.

Chapter Text

There are few places in the world I would go when it begins to end. Trish’s penthouse, or wherever she lives, would be one. My old house, if I had nothing left. Or Matthew Murdock’s place. Because that place is a place built on hope – a hope that blinds you to the thin peeling paint on the walls and the half-dead potted plant that you forget and pretend to water.

If anybody needed to know that the bastard Kilgrave was still roaming the world, it was Karen and Matt. And if anybody could help make sure he is truly, and finally, dealt with, it’s the real Devil of Hell’s Kitchen. Because I was convinced Kilgrave was dead, but I should’ve known better. I always do -that’s the problem, knowing too much. Sometime, ignorance really is bliss – but bliss isn’t on my table. It never has been.

***

As Jessica stood at the doors to the office of Nelson and Murdock: Attorney’s At Law, she felt a resonating emptiness pit itself in her stomach. The kind of emptiness that forms in the presence of guilt or uncertainty or terror. The brief window in which knowledge is held, and the effects of said knowledge is not relayed.

Opening the door, Karen Page smiled with joy. “Jessica!” She expelled as relief crossed her face, excited to see Jessica. Karen had devoted so much time in her life to saving and preserving Jessica’s life in thanks for the rescue from Kilgrave’s clutches. But this very expression buried the emptiness deeper. The pit deepened. Guilt grew. Reluctance blossomed. “Come inside – Matt, Foggy, Jessica’s here!” Perhaps the happiness that overcame Karen had blinded her from noticing the clear sombre expression that plastered itself on Jessica’s face.

Jessica stepped into the office, noting the similarity to her own – an apartment converted into an office, cheaply made, with enough attention to keep the lights on. She watched as Karen ran to the door on the left, pushing open the door to retrieve Matt, whilst the door to her right swung open with a curious Foggy popping his head out in intrigue.

Yet, Foggy was first to notice the sombre look. The shifty eyes, the unfettered frown. Then Matt noticed her racing heartbeat, and Karen clocked onto her expression.

“Jessica… what’s the matter?” Karen finally asked, racing across the room as her breath quickened.

“You look likes you’ve seen a ghost.” Foggy chuckled nervously.

“It’s- It’s-” She struggled to find the words. Ward’s face and exposition replayed in her mind. The smile, dark and powerful and twisted. Yet her sentence didn’t need her words to finish it. As Karen guided her to a chair, feeling her trembling hands and legs slowly about to give way, Matt interjected.

“Kilgrave’s back.” Matt’s voice was riddled with guilt – and much like a contagious plague, it spread across the room quickly. As shifty shameful eyes littered the room. Karen was first to avoid eye contact, with a pounding heartbeat that rang loudly in Matt’s ears, meanwhile Foggy glanced across cautiously.

Observing the room, whipping her head back from staring at Matt in fury and confusion, she noticed the expressions of Foggy and Karen. Their speechless eyes spoke a thousand words, one conspiracy lingering around the room with a potent fact – they all knew. “You-” Jessica’s difficulty to catch the words continued as she glanced around. Whilst Foggy knowing didn’t effect her too much, the fact that Karen and Matt both knew felt like a tormenting betrayal. “How?” She finally asked, avoiding the absence of words that fell from her tongue. She flicked her eyes between Karen and Matt.  

Although she spoke little, she wanted to question how Matt could keep this from her – knowing everything that was happening at SHIELD. Whilst a betrayal from Karen dug deeper, because the pair had been victims to Kilgrave in intimate ways that flooded her mind with horrible images of the absence of control.

“He visited me.” Matt spoke quietly. “A few weeks ago-”

“A few weeks ago?” Jessica shouted in rage, abandoning the struggle for words. Part of her was willing to accept that Matt had known all along, or that Matt had learnt of it within the past day like she had – but the reveal being somewhere in the middle irritated the fading part of leniency she was feeling.

“Jessica, he visited me one night. A night I had blacked out – found myself having beaten a man to death.” Matt’s admittance of that fact was painful, met with unease from Karen and Foggy who glanced to one another nervously for a moment, before composing themselves to listen. “Then I found that his suit – the one he wore when Fisk killed him – it was brand new. And I realised that he had a plan this whole time – that there was something wrong with that day.”

“And you didn’t think to tell me this?” Jessica’s voice was quieter now. Absent was rage, and now only calm terror was present. She saw the guilt and fear in Matt’s expressions. Even beneath the black shaded glasses, his eyes told a story of terror. “We could’ve helped you – SHIELD could’ve helped.”

“SHIELD?” Foggy and Karen interjected, confused as they glanced towards Matt. Matt grinned uncomfortably, now finding himself amongst a growing spindling of a web of lies. He stammered, unsure which words gave a reasonable explanation for his lie, or the situation.

Jessica, however, was sure. “Matt started working for a small band of SHIELD which still survives.” She spoke coldly, apathetic to the fallout which may last further on.

“Since when?”

“Since…” Matt cleared his throat, growing more nervous as he sensed the seething anger and frustration and confusion which sifted through the room. “Look, okay, I lied. I lied about sorting out a case somewhere else, because an old friend from my childhood needed my help saving Inhumans.”

“In-what?” Foggy exclaimed, agitated. “Matt, what else have you lied to us about?”

“Yeah, Matt, what else?” For a moment, Jessica enjoyed the retort she made. There was satisfaction in wielding a power over Matt, but as Matt grew more and more visibly uncomfortable, to a point he began to retract into himself, Jessica knew she needed to use more than cynicism.  “Listen – Kilgrave is about to open the portal that Simmons came through. We need to warn SHIELD, and go over there and help them. Because you and I are the only people immune to him.”

“I’m not immune.” Matt spoke softly. “I didn’t resist Kilgrave – I couldn’t have.”

“Well in that case, you just need something to protect yourself from inhaling his virus.” Jessica now commandeered the room, swivelling around to Karen and Foggy and handing them a USB. “HYDRA gave me this – it should have details on my child, but I expect HYDRA will have quickly changed the information. But whatever is on there is a starting point – that’s your job while Matt and I are gone, understood?”

“Your… your child?” Karen asked apprehensively, a shudder of terror passed over her. “Is the father…” She scarcely wanted to complete the question, the name itself now branded taboo, let alone the very notion that she was proposing.

“Wait, did you say portal?” Foggy commented, his mind back tracking through the conversation.

“When we’re back, Matt and I will explain everything.” Jessica spoke reassuringly, smiling towards them both politely, before swivelling back around to Matt. “Coulson’s waiting for you.”

“This is a bad idea.” Matt replied nervously, although his retort was promptly met by Jessica who grabbed him by the arm and hauled him from his spot. “My suit is back at home.”

“Which isn’t too far from here, let’s go.”

***

SHIELD had no option but beckon to Kilgrave’s call. It wasn’t manipulation that drove their obedience, but fear of uncertainty. From what Coulson explained to Jessica, as stood aboard the hefty ship of the Zephyr One, Kilgrave had four agents. Each valuable members of the team, who regardless of value needed rescuing. Added onto that was the unpredictability of Kilgrave and the growing powers of HYDRA.

The Zephyr One soon landed near the English castle. It wrecked trees nearby as it landed, blasting them away with it’s powerful engines, disrupting the HYDRA military tents that had been quickly and efficiently set up.

On board the Zephyr One was the rest of the Agents of SHIELD and some rescued Inhumans. Hunter was prepared to go in guns blazing, but Coulson calmed him down. He considered a tactical route – knowing it was unwise to send an entire force into a warzone where the enemy can control anything.

Instead, the only ones to enter the castle so visibly were Coulson, Fitz and Hunter. Matt, Jessica and Bobbi were given alternative routes, whilst the Inhumans were kept as backup. It was a strategic dispersal, ensuring that Coulson’s group were at the forefront of the focus. Kilgrave’s devious grin smiled upon them, hopefully blissfully unaware of Matt’s group sneaking around for a tactical advantage.

In fact, Coulson’s secret operation was quite literally underground. The three were dispatched to set up explosives beneath the tower, just in the hopes that they could be used as some tactical advantage.

The trio of Matt, Jessica and Bobbi navigated ancient tunnels beneath the castle. Stone bricks cradled in carefully spun cobwebs, with torch scones unused in centuries. Spiders and rats lingered in crevices, hiding under the torchlight of the trio. Above them, within the surface level of the castle, footsteps and wheels could be heard. A buzz of technology reached down towards Matt, piercing his ears slightly.

“What happened between everybody and Ward?” Jessica queried. Her footsteps joined the echoing sounds of their journey, clopping of their soles as they traversed through the narrow tunnels. Neither Bobbi nor Matt, who was busy leading their journey based on careful listening, turned around to Jessica. Instead, each of the trio paid full attention to journeying through the encamped walls.

“A lot of things.” Bobbi explained succinctly summarising the previous two years of espionage and conflict. Jessica felt underwhelmed, but decided to wait. The ongoing silence was enough to extract the rest from Bobbi, who continued after sitting in the lingering silence for some time. “Ward used to be on the team – before I joined. He betrayed them all. He and May had a thing – then he and Daisy had a thing. Then he almost killed Fitz and Simmons by dropping them in the middle of the ocean. And then he tried to kill me. And tried to kill everybody else a couple other times I’m sure.”

“That’s why Hunter was so hellbent on killing him before then? For you?” Jessica asked, tilting her head as she tried to carve out an understanding of the situation.

“Hunter thinks like every other man – that a woman needs to be saved to gain her affection. But, like every other man, he’s wrong.” She spoke softly with a simmering affection. Some guilt resonated, alongside frustration and sadness and a complexity of emotions that fizzled from the divorce. “Sorry, no offence Matt.” Bobbi swiftly added, remembering they were being led through the tunnels by Matt.

“Look, I’ll be honest - the two men who have ever given me affection have been very complicated situations. Especially since one of them, we’re hunting down now. But he means well. He loves you – properly loves you.” Jessica’s observation made Bobbi blush. Quiet passed across them as Bobbi considered the notion – because she knew Hunter loved her, but it was inspiring to consider that others had seen it too.

“I love him too.” Bobbi remarked, halting for a moment. Matt paused too, apprehensively turning around whilst his attention fizzled elsewhere. Bobbi’s eyes met with Jessica, whose expression was a mixture of admiration with a dash of envy.

“Then make sure he knows it.” Jessica retorted quickly. “You’re both in these hectic lives – HYDRA is plotting your deaths like you’re pieces on a chess board. Don’t waste the time you have together.” There was sincerity in Jessica’s voice. A sense of impending doom too, perhaps, as the threat that Kilgrave posed loomed above them.

“I suppose you’re right…” Replied Bobbi, uncertain how to take the advice.

“Shh-” Matt interjected abruptly, holding his hand out for a moment of silence from the pair. His ears pricked to the voices upstairs. “They’re in the tower…”

*

“Welcome!” Kilgrave declared, proudly and arrogantly. His hands waved high in the air as a cackle left his mouth. Lined around the room were the four agents of SHIELD – May, Daisy, Simmons and Mack. They stood anxiously, their terrified faces fixed on Kilgrave, unwavering completely. “House rules – your friends here have each been commanded to die a slow and painful death should any of you do anything that threatens me or the opening of this portal. You’re all free to leave once the Inhuman from the other side is back. Oh, and no guns please. Get rid of them, please.”

Although the three agents entering the tower had all taken precautions, with breathing apparatus’ to filter out the virus that permeated the air with each spoken word from Kilgrave, they complied. Kilgrave was a control freak, a man who favoured power and dominance, and not feeding into an illusion of power at the very least dissatisfied him greatly.

In synchronised obedience, the three agents carefully planted their guns on the floor, staring suspiciously around them. They worried that being unarmed was a trigger for something else. Yet, nothing happened.

“Before you arrived, I explained the whole portal thing to your four agents here.” Kilgrave began to traipse around the room. His leather shoes slapping against the ground, each clop echoing throughout the tower and up into the nights sky. Stars glistened above, blissfully ignorant to the abomination of nature that was being summoned beneath. “To cut short Gideon Malick’s whole speel, HYDRA want an Inhuman from the other side of the portal to come over and rule the world. But I don’t want that – not exactly.”

“Yeah, and what exactly do you want?” Coulson interrupted, carefully staring across the room.

“The Inhuman on that side can control other Inhumans – but considering pretty Daisy here is controllable, I assume the Inhuman on the other side is too. Which then means, I could take control of an Inhuman that controls other Inhumans. Do with that what you please.”

“You want an army?” Coulson couldn’t stomach the thought of a man like Kilgrave controlling a horde of Inhumans. There was a panic in his gut, as he considered the ATCU’s dealings with Inhumans, as well as their layered connection to HYDRA.

“More than that, Coulson. I want a marching band!” He exclaimed, gleaming with the idea. “You Americans and your bloody parades. My army, when I have one, will be enough to empower my dear Jessica – as well as the whole conquering the world. But it will show Jessica that she doesn’t have to hide away…” There was a way the words were muttered by Kilgrave that uneased Coulson and the agents. A slither of knowledge that he shouldn’t have, only made worse by the fact that May’s face changed to an overwhelming expression of guilt. “Fitz will help my men to open the portal from the other side – naturally, if he refuses, Simmons will pluck out every strand of hair on her head, before using that gun Fitz has placed by his foot.”

“We can’t open that portal, Kilgrave. Not again – anyone who goes-”

“Anyone who goes to that planet will die!” Kilgrave shouted over Fitz, mocking Simmons as he did so. A cruel and malicious smile etched across his face as he did so. “I’ve heard it before and I really don’t care – you are going through that portal… and I’m sending May and…” He glanced around the room, cautiously. He observed the candidates. Coulson’s ferocity, Daisy’s powers, Simmons’ intelligence (coupled with her pre-existing knowledge), Mack’s brute force, or the intriguing allure of the man who hadn’t yet spoken. The rugged looking man, whose scruffy appearance appeared to be a choice with some benefit to his handsomeness. There was a rage in his eyes, a fight and purpose. “You.”

Kilgrave pointed towards Hunter, dawning a terror across his heart. His pulse quickened and cold sweat prickled the back of his neck. Terror pulsed through him, clenching his fists involuntarily.

“Hunter, wasn’t it?” Kilgrave continued, relishing in the fear that crossed Hunter’s eyes. “You’re going with May – two skilled agents alongside some HYDRA operatives. And, should either you deviate from my plan, let’s just say your friends here will suffer the consequences in the most… creative ways.”

With a low and defiant voice, Coulson stepped forward with a darkened expression “You don’t need to do this, Kilgrave. If you think for a second that-”

“Ah, ah, ah!” Kilgrave snapped, flicking a hand dismissively. “That’s enough from you! One more word out of you and I’ll have Daisy use that force power she has to rip Mack apart.” Across Kilgrave’s face was a proud smirk, watching as Coulson’s mouth snapped shut with silent fury.

Following Kilgrave’s statement, silence followed and an order for HYDRA engineers swarmed the room with activities. Scientists moved with perfect precision, wheeling equipment into the room and setting up the series of strange devices around the room. One engineer fiddled with a metallic console, with a buzz and whir of machinery filling the tower.

As the engineers continued their work on the various consoles and pieces of technology that littered the tower, Kilgrave’s eyes flicked back between the agents. “Soon enough, this portal is going to be fully-functional and you’ll step into a brand new, horrifying world.” His voice was laced with gleeful anticipation, savouring the beauty in the chaos that laid before him

Between Coulson and Fitz was a shared darting of eyes. A silent communication of urgency, a subtle nod transferred between them, with some hopes that they could find a way to trigger the explosives that lined the tower underfloor. Yet, as their eyes shifted, Kilgrave caught sight of them. His instincts almost detected the slight shift to determination and he grinned as he glanced between them.

“Oh, don’t think about trying anything heroic. Remember the risk – but I do appreciate your enthusiasm.”

“Kilgrave – please,” Simmons finally broke the quiet, as a buzzing and humming grew louder from the cramming tech that crowded the tower. “That planet is dangerous. It’s a sentient planet. It corrupts everything – it’s a doorway to something we cannot control.”

“That’s where you’re mistaken, Miss Simmons. I’m in control – I always am. Gift from mum and dad! Besides if that planet itself is alive, that’s just one more thing to bend to my will.”

As a heavy pounding vibration rocked through the room, bringing dust from the stone bricks and a piercing pain to the heads of everybody, three new people entered the room. Two unknown guards, dressed in army beige camouflage uniforms sauntered inside, whilst led by another man. A more rugged man, yet stoically handsome. Powerful in stance and posture, dark eyes and a piercing glare, with a powerful alluring smile.

“Ward…” Hunter murmured. Rage filled his body, and were it not for the observant eye of Kilgrave or the pounding headache from the technology, Hunter would’ve lunged forward.

“Ward here is guiding you! As well as Fitz – but from what I’m told, that’s just like the good old days!” The five positioned monolith blocks now began to goop. They each liquefied in uniform fashion, swirling around in a circular base and opening for the passers to travel through. Kilgrave clapped his hands together and sneered as he glanced around the room. His voice rang out over the commotion, “Step through my friends! You’re about to be the first humans to make a round trip to another world! Try to come back in one piece!” He chuckled darkly, staring with a glimmer of pride and sarcasm.

Hunter cast a final glance to Coulson, mouthing some words that Kilgrave couldn’t catch, before he stepped forward. May followed, only shooting the team a glance in her eyes. They dropped through the swirling black goopy portal. Simmons lunged forward and held onto Fitz hand for a moment, although Ward voluntarily interrupted the sweet moment with a cynical and sadistic grin plastered across his face, pushing Fitz away and watching him stumble through the portal.

As they finally passed through and the portal ceased, silence followed for a moment.

Uncertainty.

Fear.

Anxiety.

Yet, what followed was an uncertain clopping of footsteps. The enraged voice of Bobbi Morse cried out for Hunter, followed by two other pairs of feet. “Don’t send him thro-” Her voice was brought to an immediate stop when she entered the tower and found it lacking three of the agents she expected to see. Her horrified eyes glanced over to Kilgrave’s menacing smile.

Yet his smile only lasted for a few moments. Seconds, in fact, as his eyes instead fell upon Jessica. Awe and shock grasped hold of him as he stared at the most beautiful woman he knew. Stood here, in his hour of triumph. “Jessica…” An onslaught of memories hit Jessica as her eyes fell upon. Him. A tsunami of trauma. Painful months seized her and trembled her insides. Everything she hated and feared stood before her – and all she could do was stand motionless. With the portal closed, Kilgrave was a step closer to succeeding. “Did you miss me?” His voice was cold. Powerful. Enough to enrage every fibre within her body.

Chapter Text

Even in a word of the most extraordinary beings, the finest plans can be built upon the smallest, faintest threads of deceit and manipulation. And playing these threads, meddled in the tangled web, is a master puppeteer. A man who danced the threads to avoid his own death. A man who ran his finger along those threads, unthreatened by the world. A man who brought torture to the lives of many – Kilgrave.

***

“The day I died had been carefully prepared for. All of those small details were considered. The correct cologne, the specific suit, the face, the hair, the height, the shoes. Every minute possibility was taken into account and catered for. Even down to the silence of Elektra, who could’ve ruined the whole illusion, but she stayed quiet about the costume change. Mainly because she had to, but I do wonder, Matthew, what she could have done to make you aware. Perhaps she tried a visual clue – mouthing the words or hand gestures or discreet eye movements – because I did intentionally toy with the words. I told her to stay silent, to not say a word– but… wait,” There was a mocking turn to Kilgrave’s voice, lining the grimacing smile. “You wouldn’t be able to tell – I forget, despite the fact you walk around better than any man who can see, you can’t. Not at all.”

“Leave him alone.” Jessica interjected cruelly, angrily. Her words warranted a surprise from Kilgrave who swivelled around in surprise. He raised his eyebrow and the corner of his mouth twinged with a smirk. “You’re doing all of this for me – so leave them all alone.”

Kilgrave chuckled. A genuine amusement fuelling the laughter that escaped his lips. “Seriously? And you call me the narcissist?”

“I call you a lot of other things.”

Kilgrave smirked once again, his mind taken back to a day he’d love to relive. In his mind for a moment, an image of Jessica being obedient and lustrous before him resonated in his mind. “I know that much.” He spoke, his voice low and grovelling, an image that was enough to make some of the agents recoil at the implication.

“You sick bastard.” Jessica retorted.

“Say it louder.” Kilgrave jeered, intentionally riling her up. Written across his face was a satisfied smile, enjoying everything that was playing before him. The control he had over her – not in his conventional sense, but through the situation she was restrained. Like a violent dog, she was chained only able to bark and snap.

Coulson spoke quietly. “Jess, calm down.” His cautious eyes expressed a wisdom and a certainty. A warning resonated in them, expressing the danger of releasing the unrelenting rage that a man like Kilgrave provoked.

“How did you survive? Or escape or plan whatever you planned?” Matt asked in the cooling moments of Jessica’s heavy panting. Kilgrave now swivelled his head, a dark smile illuminating his face with utter joy.

“Finally, the proper audience!” Kilgrave clapped his hands and rested against a console. He intentionally avoided touching the buttons and dials, not wanting to mess up the machine as it stood dormant with the explorers trapped on the other side. Dropping to a low, almost conspiratorial whisper, Kilgrave voice was lined with a theatrical tone. “It wasn’t about escaping – it was about controlling the narrative. But you should understand that, as a lawyer. Taking the facts and moving them just into the correct spot for the spotlight.

“The day I died had been prepared for. The Hand had arranged a body double, carefully altered prosthetics, bought the suit and the cologne. All I needed to do was bring a piece of spyware.” He swivelled around and locked his eyes in a fixed glare with Coulson. There was a moment of anticipation and a slither of panic at this sight, which Coulson ridded of by a hefty gulp. “Tell me, Phil, what piece of technology famously disguises your face and voice?” Mockingly, Kilgrave sneered. He waited for an answer, clearly told that Coulson was a huge fan of SHIELD and it’s history and technology by a resenting Ward.

Coulson resisted for a moment, but his eyes caught sight of Jessica and the desperation for clarity that lined her face. “A spy veil.”

“A spy veil.” Kilgrave scoffed, bringing quiet in the absence of his words as the agents of SHIELD stood anxiously watching. “Stick a spy veil on a man who already looks vaguely like me, with clothes, hair and smell all to really look like me – and you just have to watch the show go on! Oh the theatrics… I mean, the biggest worry was that should something happen to the body doubles face, it would be a dead giveaway. But, always entrust a homicidal maniac with your murder, because Fisk really did a number on me. Repetitive blows to the floor. I suppose you were spared the sight, but the face was so badly damaged that they couldn’t even confirm it was me.”

“So you orchestrated everything?” Matt spoke gravely. His voice unaffected by the revelation, but instead only turned by one aspect in his mind. Resonating in his ears were the dying breaths of Elektra as he held her bleeding body in his arms. Cradling her as life seeped from her body, as her words faded from her body. “Even when you told Elektra to stab herself?” His voice was slow, careful, teetering with anger. Hanging from his sides were two clenched fists, ready to leap forward in an assault of rage.

“All prepared, Matthew.” Kilgrave sneered, unperturbed by Matt’s interjection and seething rage. “Granted, you hiding her body did complicate matters slightly. But, nevertheless, it all worked out in the end. The Hand have their Black Sky, I didn’t really die, Fisk went off to do whatever he’s doing. All the while, events I didn’t even consider led you all here. All thanks to Jessica-”

“Don’t you dare say my name.” She spoke through gritted teeth, and eyes fixed on Kilgrave like a predator latched onto its prey.

“But your name, Jessica… It’s practically poetry. Rolls off the tongue. Symbolises beauty and ferocity. And, really, you should be thanking me, not threatening me. After all, they say motherhood really shapes a woman – perhaps this drunken miserable life of yours will improve now that you’re aware that there’s a little girl out there, who has her mother's eyes, father's nose, and possibly even more fucked up parents.”

Jessica lunged forward uncontrollably, her hands gripping around Kilgrave’s neck. She pinned him against the console, her ears ignoring the cries and the pleas that filled the room. Her eyes only locked onto Kilgrave’s, her mind fixated on the image of a child born from him.

“No-” Kilgrave spoke with bated breath, nearing a point of suffocation, but having enough air to breathe with some function, “You lot, stand down!” Instructing the agents breathlessly, his eyes flickered back to Jessica. Both staring into one another’s pupils intently. Stares with piercing pressures. Reminiscing for a moment, Kilgrave smirked. Feeling the power of Jessica on top was impressive and evocative.

“My child – my daughter? Why did you give her to HYDRA?” Jessica’s teeth gritted.

“Protection.” Kilgrave spoke with little air getting to him, his eyes bulging with glee. Jessica loosened her grip ever so slightly, still distrusting of the man. “It was a guarantee of my allegiance to Ward, and protection on my part. But also, protection from us both… Neither of us could raise that child – at least, not yet… You’re too – too – too shy and guilty and repressed.”

“If I’m repressed, it’s because some psychopath has kidnapped me for whole years of my life and forced me to be someone and something I’m not.” Jessica spat as she spoke, still leering over Kilgrave, who simply smiled. His expression unchanged.

“No – No, it started before my. Your sister, your mother. Your ex. Your shitty job and shitty apartment.” Kilgrave grinned, staring into her eyes. “I only ever let you grow.”

Appalled, Jessica tightened her grip, pinning him further down against the console until the bolts and screws dug into his back. “You didn’t let me grow. The only thing you did, you sick bastard, was rape me.”

Her words brought upon a silence in the room. Not that anybody was making noise beforehand, but the very utterance of those words made everybody else pause completely. Jessica’s ears caught no other sound, only letting her eyes catch the angered eyes of Kilgrave who abhorred the word. His face grimaced, his mouth finally twinging into something ew, laced with disgust.

“I- I- You know I hate that word, Jessica. I didn’t – I didn’t – You wanted it too. We were made for each other, in so many ways.”

“The only thing I was ever made to do,” Jessica tightened her grip, now hearing Kilgrave gasp for air. Her eyes stared down intently, furiously, age-filled, “Was kill you.”

“Jessica, stop it!” Matt interjected, whilst Coulson rushed to grab her arms.

As they did so, Bobbi hurtled forward and grasped onto a piece of rope that rested peacefully on the ground nearby. She threw it around Kilgrave’s face, binding it to his mouth with a tight knot around the back of his head. They watched as Kilgrave struggled for control, his arms held down by Matt and Coulson who managed to get Jessica off him. They listened to his muffled enraged shouting, feeling his arms struggle violently. His indistinct cries for Daisy or Simmons or Mack to intervene, but too muffled to make out the words.

“You told them to stand down – technically, they’ve listened to your instruction. Next time, make sure you choose your words carefully.” Coulson smirked with pride as he leered over Kilgrave. “This whole operation is going down, and when it does, you’re getting the justice you deserve.”

“We still need the others to return.” Matt said quietly and anxiously. “He’s in charge of this whole operation.”

“Don’t worry, Matt.” Coulson spoke quietly and reassuringly. “I want Daisy, Mack and Simmons under temporary quarantine. I want all available forces to take control of the castle – and I want this… thing… to be locked up in the most secure, but also dingy cell in this whole castle.” Coulson demanded, tapping his earpiece before grinning around the room.

Chapter Text

Life. Across the universe, despite the hardships and the dangers, it prevails. Often, when one death occurs, a new life sprouts in it’s place. Sometimes, we think of this to be re-incarnation. The travel of life, taking new forms. Yet, as the death of Lance Hunter reached confines of the castle tower, the new life form that would be bred from this death would be horrific.

***

Morning sunlight glistened high above the castle tower. It broke down and shimmered across the consoles and remnants of ancient medievality. Clouds floated along the blue skyline high above, passing along the glisten of sunlight that was cast over the damp surrounding forest.

The tower itself had a floor strewn with ancient debris, but resonated with a high pitch ringing. Speakers hooked up to machinery pumped out a frequency that screamed through the air and trembled the ground, provoking the rocks in the centre of the castle to form a liquified swirling portal. It was powerful and patient, raging with activity as it waited for the travellers to pass back through it.

“They’re taking their time, aren’t they?” Remarked Bobbi, growing more anxious as she wandered back and forth. Her eyes darted across to Coulson, pure panic lining the frame of her pupils as each second passed during the portals opening. It rumbled throughout the room, roaring in agony at each interval it could.

“Well, if they don’t hurry up, the portal is going to become unstable – it’s already in the red zone on this readout.” Coulson remarked, trying to disguise his concern with a joke as he tapped the glass to a small meter, in which the hand ticked over into a red side of the glass.

The room crackled more, before the portal began spurting out sand and dust. The roaring became deafening, shrieking over the screaming speakers which trembled the room with such immense power. The swirling portal became more violent, as though something was beginning to breach it’s barriers. In preparation, Coulson dragged himself towards the controls, memorised what Simmons had explained to him and fixated on them.

Three body followed the eruption of activity, each weak and limp, collapsing against the ground. Coulson glared forward, frantically counting each. Although the agonising roar of the portal was loud and distracting, he was quick to catch sight of them.

May, Fitz, Hunter.

No Ward, no HYDRA soldiers, no Inhuman.

With those three counted, he dragged himself towards the console and switched off the machine. A heavy whirring quietened and weakened, whilst the speakers stopped all together. The room itself almost felt like it had lowered, as power surged downwards and ceased from entering the tower. Nothing changed in terms of sunlight or cloud presence, but for a moment everything seemed brighter.

Except, seconds later, the exact same conditions lingered above, but the world darkened. As Bobbi and Jessica and Coulson glanced around to the three arrivals, their attention was drawn towards the motionless Hunter. Bobbi had been the first to notice something was wrong – with incredible speed, she shot down towards him and seized him in her arms. She clasped his body and felt her hands tremble and her heart pound in her chest. Her grasp firmed and she searched somewhere for a pulse, but the bleeding bullet wound was evidence enough for what she feared most.

“Wha- What happened?” She asked, speaking intermittently through the grief struck tears that showered her cheeks.

“Ward… He got i- He fought Ward… and…  Ward shot him.” Fitz spoke first, flashing in his mind was the horrid gunshot. The way it trebled through the air, ricocheted through the sandstorm and pierced their ears, plunging a dread deep down in them. He remembered that dread, the emptiness of his gut and the dropping of his heart.

“What happened to Ward?” Coulson asked, vocalising the exact words that ran through Bobbi’s mind. Coulson glanced around the room, checking to see if he had miscounted – or if there was a tattered sign of where Ward was, or what happened to him. Yet, very quickly, Coulson’s eyes were drawn to May, who held up a gun she didn’t have upon entering the portal.

“Finally got rid of him.” She replied coldly. There was no passion or remorse or concern that toned her words. There was also no hatred or anger. Uttered from her lips were facts, uncontrollable and unchangeable facts. Ward was dead – he was shot and left on an alien planet.

Although the coldness of May’s response wasn’t enough for Bobbi, who still squeezed Hunter’s body in hope for some warmth somewhere. Even all of the best SHIELD tech couldn’t help this, his lifeless body. The hopes to reconnect and rekindle and rediscover their love was snatched away, ripped away in a flash. Her heart and soul didn’t just ache for his death, but the unresolved feelings and the potential future ahead.

Coulson felt his heart gnawed away by grief. He was a dead man once – killed by an alien in a valiant effort to protect the planet. But he was fortunate enough to be brought back – but Hunter wasn’t so lucky. Hunter was gone.

“Where are the others?” May asked, finally breaking the sombre silence which grew throughout the room.

“They’ve been quarantined. Can’t risk any secret instructions – not to mention the risk of contamination.” Coulson added, still feeling the room filled with unanswered questions and the grief draining those questions’ chances of being asked. “We managed to stop Kilgrave once you went in – but… his men overpowered us. He escaped the castle before we could track him down. Left us to deal with you lot.”

Fitz pulled himself against a wall, stammering as he tried to speak. “I- We- We found the Inhuman.” He admitted eventually. “It took the body of Will – the man who saved Jemma when she was in there. Did he come through here?” Fitz was met with a triage of shaking heads and mumbles of rejections. A comfort to him at first, until he remembered the tablet had dropped and something pushed past May to form three figures, which eventually ended up as just two. Fitz was quiet as he thought to himself, slowly approaching the other side of the room and drowning his grief in inquisitive thinking.

“I didn’t get to…” Bobbi muttered, holding Hunter tight as she rocked him. “I didn’t get to say goodbye… I didn’t even get to say–” The guilt in her chest tightened and squeezed like a vice. She shook her head in an attempt to reject and deny the proof in her hands, whilst her voice broke into a sob.

Jessica knelt down beside her, “Don’t do this to yourself. You can’t blame yourself. But we can honour him and make sure his sacrifice meant something. Because he saved us – probably.” She glanced to Fitz and May, who replied with nodding heads of reassurance.

“If it wasn’t for Hunter, Ward would’ve come back here and rained hellfire.” May commented quietly, placing a steady hand on Bobbi’s shoulder.

“But he’s gone and I never–” Her words broke off, choked in her throat by a firm grasp by grief. “I never got to fix things – I thought we had time.” Her tears dissolved her words into sobs of utter uncontrollable grief. Her body trembled with the sinking reality, since each rock of Hunter’s body evoked no sense of life. No response was drawn from the corpse.

“Hunter was a hero.” May stated quietly, pride glistening from the words she spoke. A glimmer in her eye carried the same pride and honour. “Hunter knew the danger of Ward and pursued him – he fought his battle and he chose to protect us.”

Despite the honour and pride that May spoke with, Bobbi couldn’t help but feel swamped with grief. As she clasped onto Hunter’s body, staring down at his lifeless face, she felt an emptiness pit itself in her stomach. Unspoken words weighed immensely in their size, memories burned themselves in the mind. Kisses, laughs, arguments, looks… everything held within her heart.

Bobbi wiped away a tear and stared back up to Coulson. Her eyes flickered to Jessica too, an alert that what was about to escape her mouth was relevant to her too. Rage now tinted her teary eyes, as she prepared her throat for words. “When we find Kilgrave next time – we don’t hesitate. We kill him. Shoot him on sight – regardless of the consequences.”

“Bobbi-” Jessica’s retort was swiftly interrupted.

“On sight.” Bobbi’s voice was firm and angry. “This man has no good intentions. For all intents and purposes he’s a superpowered terrorist – we shouldn’t even be dealing with him, but if the Avengers are too busy, and it’s our call, then we give him no more chances.”

Coulson glanced to Jessica briefly, seeing the absence of such violence in her eyes, before being drawn back to Hunter. His face, expressionless and his body motionless. “I agree.” Coulson stated coldly, his agreement and tone echoed by May.

***

Upon Zephyr One, Hunter’s body was placed in the medical bay. Resting on top of an examination table, his body lied dormant and cold, shut eyes and motionless and extremely pale. Peaceful and undisturbed by the grief which resonated around him. Surrounding him was a sterile scent of antiseptic and medical various tools that clanged with each accidental bang of the side table they rested on.

Coulson had requested an autopsy in case there was anything that could be learned from about the alien planet. Fitz had requested to be present, and Simmons had been granted special observational privileges, in the hopes that they could both provide some valuable insight. Meanwhile Bobbi demanded she be present, not wanting to lay her eyes ff Hunter in the hopes that something would change – a naïve and futile optimism and remained undeterred by reality.

As they watched the body being prepared, Fitz and Simmons felt shivers run down their spines, feeling wrong to stare at his body. Bobbi, on the other hand, wiped away her tears as she watched. “I should’ve been there for you.” She remarked, brushing a stray strand of hair from his forehead and admiring his face. “We should’ve got you out of there before the twelve-hour mark.”

“Kilgrave had made an impossible situation.” Fitz added quietly, looking to Bobbi who had slowly grown to accept the difficulty of the situation.

“I know… I just–”

“Look,” Fitz abruptly interrupted Bobbi’s strife for words, adopting a low and urgent voice. Bobbi looked offended for a moment, before watching as Fitz pointed towards the side of Hunter’s head and began to lean in closer. His face looked horrified and confused as he got closer, prodding the side of his head and recoiling as he did so.

Bobbi glanced with more attention, noticing an unnatural bulge shift and pulse beneath the surface of his skin. A grotesque movement, as if something was crawling along the skull of the corpse, wriggling and writhing along. It distorted and stretched the skin slightly, making Bobbi’s heart race with horror and a fading sense of hope.

“What the hell is that?” Bobbi asked, panicked as she backed away from the examination table. Her hands trembled with her voice, whilst her eyes fixed on the twisted pale corpse that was seemingly infected.

Simmons approached carefully, with a clinical focus in her eyes, before grabbing hold of a small medical instrument and began to probe it. Hunter’s skin was cold and clammy, whilst this portion seemed to pulse with life beneath it. The shifting creature dragged itself from the temple down towards the back of his neck, wriggling along the muscles or bone, bulging out like an inflamed vein.

“It’s… Something inside him” Simmons whispered, curiously observing as it travelled to the back of his neck and fading from view. “Nothing like any infection or parasite I’ve seen before. It must be from the planet. But even there, I hadn’t seen anything like it before.”

Fitz glanced up horrified, his eyes meeting with Simmons’. “Because you never saw a corpse on that planet.” He muttered quietly, his senses beginning to block out the sterile scent and metallic odour, as he recalled the limping body of Will Daniel. He recalled looking down at the bandaged leg and the impossibility of the man stood before him. He considered the three figures turning to two, and the tablet that fell beside him. “An Inhuman capable of controlling other Inhumans was left on that planet…” His voice trailed off, as he began to back away.

Simmons glared in horror at the realisation, whilst Bobbi’s eyes still couldn’t tear away from Hunter’s face. Even despite the perversion of peace, there was something writhing within her – a hope that it was a sign.

“Bobbi, we need to leave.” Simmons spoke quietly, down to a whisper as if worried that the corpse would hear and respond.

“No – We could use this, surely. There’s still a chance we can save him. Parasites feed on living things – that’s what that is.”

“It’s really not.” Fitz remarked.

Suddenly and abruptly, with no warning or sense whatsoever., the corpse twitched. A small spasm shot down the body, whilst the pulsing bulge wriggled across the forehead of the body.

Simmons’ head snapped towards Fitz, her face pale and eyes wide. “I need to get back to quarantine.”

“Why?”

“I can’t say.”

“Why not?”

“Because, I can’t, Fitz!” Her refusal of explanation was enough reason for Fitz, who could see the sheer panic in her eyes. The primal terror, the instinctive drive to flee the situation completely. “Just tell Coulson – we need to be kept locked up.” Dread swept over her, joining as her heart pounded heavily in her chest. She squeezed Fitz’ hand and without another word, fled from the room, leaving with grace and terror.

“Where is she going?” Bobbi asked, watching as the twitching of Hunter’s body became more violent and frequent. Her eyes transfixed on the jerking motions of his limbs, as he spasmed and convulsed. The motions were spreading across his body, with his head snapping from one side to another, his eyelids jolting open and staring directly towards Bobbi. She watched in horror.

“Get back!” Fitz shouted, ripping a defibrillator from the wall and running across towards the violent jolting body laid across the examination table. He hovered over Hunter’s body, wielding the electrical pads defensively. Hunter’s body stopped as it’s dead eyes fell upon Fitz, staring blankly with intent. Observing Fitz coldly, the corpse was vigilant. It waited, cautiously. As Fitz dared to leap forward and prepared himself to surge electricity through Hunter’s body, he was promptly met by a wet slurping noise. “Eww! What the hell?” He shouted.

His eyes watched as the unnatural bulge shot towards the crevice in his chest, the bullet would was now home to a writing translucent slug, which swayed as it struggled to keep itself upright. Fitz grimaced at the sight, as blood ran down it’s slimy body, and appeared to fix it’s sights onto Fitz.

“What the hell is that?” Bobbi demanded, her voice wielding a mixture of panic and disgust, her wide-eyed gaze locked onto the grotesque entity before her.

“Get Coulson!” Fitz ordered, not drawing his attention away from the creature at all. Fortunately for Fitz, who stared in confusion, disgust and discomfort, Bobbi complied. Without question nor challenge, she raced from the room and her footsteps echoed throughout the ship. Another fortune for Fitz was that considering the situation he was dealing with, the response from the available team.

Within moments of requesting back up, Fitz was surrounded by Coulson, Jessica, Matt and Bobbi, who crowded the table and stared down baffled at the creature.

Fitz readjusted his stance, still holding the defibrillator ready. “It– It looks like a parasitic organism. But I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“I have – 1979.” Coulson remarked, partially amused by himself, although still staring down in disgust. It felt wrong staring at an almost naked Hunter, with a translucent worm holding itself out from a wound in his stomach. The creature began to elongate, stretching out and suddenly, without warning beside a slurping noise, lashed towards Fitz with impressive speed. Despite barely dodging in time, the defibrillator slipped from his hands and clattered against the floor, clanging loudly against Matt’s ears.

Bobbi leapt for the closest tool to her disposal, which happened to be a sterilised scalpel sitting on a metal tray. It shimmered under the laboratory lights, glowing with it’s silvery reflection.

“Don’t let it touch you – we don’t know what it’s capable of.”

Bobbi nodded her eyes and leapt forward with careful precision. The scalpel sliced along the see-through body, watching as it recoiled and screeched. A noise so loud it resonated through the room, bouncing against the walls and filling the air with further uncertainty.

“No! No, no!” She cried out, her voice broke as she rushed towards Hunter’s body. Horror crossed her face as she watched the man’s body become desecrated by the slug, convulsing by the whim of the creature, converted into nothing but a puppet. Yet, as her hand reached out, she froze.

Hunter’s body stopped convulsing and instead pulled itself up. Rigid movement merely dictated it to sit upright. Staring blankly. Soulless.

“Hunter?” Bobbi asked, hopefully. Naïve, she smiled for a moment as Hunter looked at her with a hint of recognition. Yet, the stare proceeded longer, until the corpse tilted it’s head and the bones cracked unpleasantly.

“You’re using the body as a host, right?” Coulson leapt forward, holding out his robotic hand. He knew the greater strength in those metallic fingers, and the expendability of the attachment. His eyes fixed forward, now attracting the stare of the creature. “Explain to me – to us – Who are you?”

Hunter’s body merely tilted its head again. Cold, blank eyes fixed forward, staring at Coulson. No emotion, nor thoughts. Just a blank expression.

“This is messed up in so many ways. Is it contagious? Is this a zombie outbreak? This is surely Avengers level stuff now?” Jessica was frantic as she backed away towards the door, terrified as the mere sight of Hunter’s moving corpse sent a shot of terror down her spine.

“I think we should lock it in the room.” Matt suggested, hovering by the doorway as his ears caught the squirming sound of the creature inside Hunter’s corpse.

“No – not until we understand what it is.” Coulson was adamant, unmoved and fixed. His eyes locked with the blank stare of Hunter’s corpse, undeterred by any movement he saw before or beside him. “Tell me – what are you?”

Hunter shut his eyes and collapsed against the metal table, resting dormant. It’s fingers twitched and moved, as did his toes and the eyeballs shot around rapidly, with a small bump of its iris bulging out from underneath the eyelid of the corpse. A heavy silence fell upon the room, slamming itself across the startled observers. The air felt suffocating, as they stood in shock and horror and confusion. The faint breathing from Hunter’s body only worsened those sensations, as the sign of life was enough to confuse the grief that had stuck them so violently.

Under the fluorescent medical light, Bobbi’s tears glistened in their frozen place. Laid before her was the moving body of the man she loved, the man she was grieving. In any sense, the body challenged her already present inability to accept his death, and her instincts drove her to reject the cold dread that Hunter was beyond saving.

Fitz approached the body carefully, calmly resting his hand against the neck of Hunter’s body. Hesitantly, he searched for a pulse, preparing him for the very real possibility for a sudden convulsion. He stared at the twitching fingers, waiting for the hand to leap up towards him and grip firmly onto him. “There’s no sign of a heartbeat. “ He whispered to himself. “Whatever it’s doing, it’s controlling the nervous system. It’s… it’s not reviving him.”

With a fixed glare upon the body, Coulson spoke quietly and steadily. He too was prepared for sudden movement, as he poised his robotic hand forward. “We need to know if it’s hostile, or desperate. Fitz, is there any way we can communicate with it?”

“I assume so…” Fitz spoke, moving his hand away from the corpse. His eyes shot across to Coulson as his voice was calm and soft and terrified. “I think this thing possessed Will… and he was perfectly normal. Remembered things about Jemma.”

As though summoned by her name, Simmons’ voice crackled over the comms. It rang through the room, resonating from the looming speakers that were designed for emergency situations like this. “I was able to get some data before I left the room – the creature’s biological signature is Inhuman. It’s possible that- that it’s a hybrid organism – my hypothesis is that after so long on that planet, it’s changed form, it’s now a parasite that partially integrates with it’s host.”

Bobbi stiffened at the word ‘hybrid’, shooting her eyes away from the corpse and into the air. “It’s trying to control Hunter’s corpse?”

“I assume so. It seems to be using the body to sustain itself, testing what it can do with a dead host.”

“Oh great,” Jessica cynically remarked. “We’ve got an alien zombie parasite – and the best-case scenario is that it’s using the body of a dead friend to just… experiment.”

As her sarcasm strung through the air, it lingered for a moment. The time to respond was promptly lost however, as their attention was swiftly drawn away from Jessica’s irritation of the situation. Instead, their heads swivelled around to the twitching lips and low gurgle that emerged from Hunter’s lips. It was as though the creature was struggling to form words using the vocal cords.

“Fe… fee… feed…” It’s distorted voice held the accent and tone of Lance Hunter. Hauntingly, it was his exact voice, but carried by the tone of a dead man. It was hollow and stripped of life and warmth. No sarcasm or jokes, wisecracks or remarks. It was absent.

“Feed? You need to be fed?” Coulson questioned.

“Fed brains?” Jessica shrugged her shoulders, only receiving shaking heads as the attention of the room fixed on anything else but her snide remarks.

“Hu… Hung… Hungry…” The voice continued as Hunter’s body began to pull itself up. It’s eyes glanced around the room, the devilish delight of gluttony and greed consuming the look in it’s dead eyes.

“A diet of just people every generation will do that.” Commented Coulson, stepping closer with caution. “What can we do?” Coulson’s question hung in the air for a moment, until Hunter’s head snapped towards him. The jerking motion was immediate and quick, and for a moment, there seemed to be a flicker of emotion in his dead eyes.

“You… You do not want me.” The voice now changed. It took a cold tone, one that was almost burdened with knowledge and power. It was prideful, almost. “SHIELD… that is what you call yourselves. Enemies of HYDRA. Old name.” Hunter began to stare down at his hands, amazed and in awe at the appearance of them. He glanced across the room, catching sight of a reflective surface and grinning at the sight of his dead, pale face. “This one will do.”

“What? What will it do?”

Before anybody could react, Hunter’s corpse moved with startling speed. It’s moments of convulsion appeared to be a preparation of the body, as the creature beneath began to gain familiarity with itself. It’s limbs were now flexible and agile, losing the sense of corpse-like rigidity from moments before. He propelled himself from the examination table and across the room.

Bobbi had lunged forward to intercept him first, still wielding the sharpened scalpel. Despite the weapon firmly grasped in her hand, her first strike was made non-lethally, hoping to avoid damaging Hunter’s body any further than it had already. Yet, as she closed in on the agile corpse, he twisted and evaded her grasp. Landing behind her, he delivered a heavy kick to her back, sending her stumbling towards the metal table. Even Coulson’s response, aided by a robotic arm, was counteracted by a methodical dodge by Hunter. In this case, Hunter knocked the arm aside and sued Coulson’s own momentum to launch him across the room. Jessica’s attempt to throw a painful and powerful punch was futile, as Hunter gripped onto her outstretched arm and flipped her surprisingly heavy body over his shoulder.

The collision between Matt and Hunter contained some more precision, as Matt aimed a precise strike towards Hunter’s knee. Yet, despite the proximity of the blow, Hunter merely sidestepped the strike and stared down at Matt, delivering a backhand strike that narrowly missed Matt’s head.

Hunter paused, the parasite searching through the memories of Lance Hunter, before setting his eyes on a small door that resided within the walls of the lab. It’s glass doors were locked, controlled by a keypad at the side. Somewhere buried in his mind,, Hunter knew he had found a containment module – which, when jumped inside, passing the hissing metallic door, he could release from the Zephyr One. In fact, all it required was a hitting of an emergency drop switch, and the unit prepared itself for disembarking down upon the ground.

As the team recovered, their ears were hit by a hiss, click and clank. Their eyes spun around and watched as the containment module was dropped from the ship.

“We need to track that module!” Coulson ordered, shouting as he rushed to the control panel. His robotic fist slammed against a counter, frustration echoing through the room in the sound of a metallic clang.

“Wow… never knew Hunter had it in him.” Jessica grumbled anger and disbelief written across her face as she winced in rubbing her shoulder.

“That thing isn’t Hunter… that parasite has full control – and it’s just escaped.” Bobbi’s admittance was painful and filled with a reluctant dread. Despite every optimistic cry in her body, she faced the truth. Hunter was gone.

“We’ll hunt it down. There’s not many places for it to go.”

Chapter Text

New York City is one bound by shadows and driven by secrets. High above, in penthouses, are men who call the shots – and one of those men, the most influential of all, is Wilson Fisk. Beneath his façade of calm and rationality, is a volatile and festering obsession. Enemies were rivals, justice was dominion. Control was vital. Now his focus remained solely on the Diamondback, Willis Stryker to most, who had caught himself in Fisk’s wrath. Fisk had found an opportunity to express his art, as he explored the masterpiece in meticulous manipulation and a search for revenge.

***

Headline news broke on the morning of the 24^th January, telling the world that Willis Stryker had a criminal history dating back to his teenage years. An exposé detailed the double life of Stryker, and the dodgy dealings he had part in during his time in New York City. Across the city was a coherent and in-depth report on the crimes of the criminal boss ‘Diamondback’.

To say the city was shocked would be an overstatement, since it really only mattered to a few people. Diamondback’s dealings were recent and barely significant, but their abrupt display across front page news was deliberately craft by a man seeking vengeance on Diamondback. Within just one morning, Diamondback was portrayed to be the enemy and the man behind it all couldn’t help but grin at the irony. Stryker had preached the 48 Laws of Power, but today the fifth one had been breached. He was to guard his reputation with his life, yet it had been tarnished across the face of the city.

Fisk admired the newspapers that had been delivered before him. He stared down at the collection of parchments, freshly inked with photographs and writing, with an admiration glistening across his face. Displayed across his coffee table was his work – his push to expose the man who had threatened him, his love, and his grip on the city.

“This is the last that I could find, Mr Fisk.” The voice of a young man resonated through the penthouse, with the light tapping of his feet following. Fisk swivelled around, his attention fixed on the young Peter Parker, whose hair bounced with each eager step he took.

“Thank you, Peter.” Fisk’s voice emerged from deep in his chest, bearing an unmistakeable and hefty pride within it. Greed and satisfaction lined his face, staring down in awe at the papers as his handywork shimmered in the morning light. Behind him, the large glass walls were cleaned to perfection and bright, untouched sunlight capered through. The signs of a cold January morning resonated above the city, but it’s warmth from the sun was clear to anybody who wandered past.

“Who is he?” Peter asked curiously, putting down some papers. He was striving for more information – context to clarify the already puzzling situation. So far, Peter had felt useless with the little information he had available, since he wasn’t really able to help Matt. He’d informed him about a little girl Fisk took care of sometimes, and a Bishop, but besides them and some dealings with rivalling gangs, he had little to report.

“Scum.” Fisk blurted out, wandering towards the glass to oversee the city. His eyes consumed it all, the yellow taxis, the planes flying in the distance, the people who passed the streets, tiny like ants. “He threatens the city and everything we stand for. Stryker wants to corrupt the good people of Harlem, which in turn infects the rest of the city. If it carries on, you’ll see it in Queens soon enough.”

“But surely that’s the work of the police.” Commented Peter, picking up the heaviest newspaper and cycling through it with intrigue. He skimmed through the exposé, glancing at the ancient photos and CCTV captures. “Not the work of reporters.”

“Nowadays, the police have lost their power.” Fisk shook his head and spoke with a guttural disgust. A convincing tone laced the words that seeped from his tongue. “Vigilantes purvey justice, journalists do the investigations. All they’re left to do is parking tickets.”

“There haven’t been many vigilantes around for a while – not this side of town at least.” Peter felt nervous, hoping that Fisk wouldn’t make the connection of the Queens boy being knowledgeable about vigilantes like the vigilante notoriously crawling and thwipping across Queens.

Yet, all Peter received was a cautious glare, as Fisk prepared a response. In his mind, a draft was drawn, read and discarded, replaced with a finer copy. “People still cling on to hope. They lack belief in the police force, trust people like Spiderman. And soon, when Spiderman is caught, they’ll trust nobody.”

“Perhaps he shouldn’t be caught then.” Peter was quick and eager, wincing slightly once the words shot from his mouth and hung in the air. Fisk paused, his face now faced away from Peter, but his hulking body left a lot to his imagination. Before long, however, Fisk turned around with a curious and fascinated smile.

“Perhaps… perhaps…” Fisk muttered quietly, before drawing his attention down towards the splay of newspapers. The repeated face of Willis Stryker looked to be a memorial, although instead of commemorating or celebrating the man, it demonised him. Hated him. Called for incarceration of the crime boss. “My focus is on Diamondback – when I have him behind bars, the city can be a step closer to the notion of peace.” Fisk approached Peter and rested his hand firmly on his shoulder, grinning as he peered down. “Do you think this city will ever return to peace?”

Peter stammered, his mind racing through his knowledge of New York from his history classes. The question was a large one, complex and built upon many factors – the question itself was built upon an assumption that New York was ever at peace – which considering the turmoil after the turn of the century, it was a likely no. Yet that train of thought was prolonged and wordy, so Peter merely muttered a response to keep Fisk happy.

Fisk patted Peter on the shoulder, ready to send him away, before Peter froze. His attention was captured by the hanging piece of art that had loomed over the living area. It was a centrepiece, the main attraction, always caught in a shimmer of light.

“My finest piece.” Fisk abruptly interrupted Peter’s quiet, landing his hand upon his back. Pride in Fisk’s words were heavy, for a multitude of reasons. He was proud of the painting, proud of it’s placement, proud of it’s meaning, proud that Peter had taken an interest. “Tell me, Peter, when you look at it, what does it make you feel?”

Peter tilted his head, having not considered the answer before looking at the painting. “It looks like a TV on static… but it’s like a void. Kind of… bleak and sad. Makes me feel alone.” Fisk glanced down, the pride now reaching his eyes. A thick smile etched across his face. Peter glanced up, hoping he’d answered correct.

A humble chuckle escape Fisk, as his gaze shifted from the painting down to Peter, as though assessing a rare find. His hand remained latched to Peter, firm and confident. “Alone, yes.” Fisk relished the word. The truth was refreshing and powerful, calming almost. “That is an honest answer – many stare and nod and pretend to understand. But you, Peter, you see the emptiness. You understand that loneliness is a strength in this city. Keeps you guarded and in control.”

Peter hesitated to reply for a moment, observing the painting with a new attempt. He tried to see what Fisk could see, curiously staring at the void of white and various tones of grey. Perhaps loneliness, or control, or fear? Whatever Fisk saw, it was a secret buried deep within him.

Glancing back to Fisk, Peter’s eyes were curious and intrigued. “Does it ever get to you? Feeling alone? I know you’re not really alone, because you have Miss Marianna, but do you feel like nobody else sees the world like you do?” Biting his lip, Peter felt conscious whether his question was the right question. He was, quite frankly, terrified of asking Fisk the wrong question. Yet, something about Fisk’s lingering smile was reassuring. Even as his expression hardened and his face showed the signs of deep contemplation, there was some comfort in the fact he hadn’t angered Fisk.

“The loneliness I feel in my view is necessary. It allows me perspective. It allows me to act without distraction.” There was a coldness in Fisk’s voice, as a chill began to run down Peter’s spine. A disconnect rested between Fisk and the real world, evidenced by the towering walls of his penthouse, and the clinical perfection of the décor and rituals conducted by Fisk. The minimalist view of everything stripped Fisk of personality and flair, leaving a valuable goldmine to be unearthed.

“What if someone – someone like… someone like Spiderman – what if he thought he could make a difference too? What if… maybe, you don’t have to be so alone to do the right thing? What if collaboration and teamwork is the solution?” Peter asked with a gleam in his eye, a careful skirt around the truth. His questions were a disguised stretched-out hand, an offer of an alliance for the greater good. The acceptance of great responsibility.

Fisk’s smile began to fade, replace with a calm frown. “Idealistic. Naïve, even! This city would chew him up and spit him out – it’s no world for heroes. If Spiderman were really wise, he’d realise that strength lies in avoiding the battles that cannot be won.”

“What if fighting those battles were the whole point?” Swallowing hard, in fear of his spark of defiance, Peter sheepishly glanced back towards Fisk. A thought flashed in the back of his mind, considering the fact that Fisk could batter his skull like he had Kilgrave not too long ago. Yet, Peter could also swear he saw a flicker of amusement in Fisk’s eyes. As though the debate, the challenge, sparked an idea.

“What if, what if, what if. You see the world through countless possibilities, Peter. I see it through truth and sense. The city isn’t kind to those who fail to learn quickly.” As Fisk’s low grumbling voice spoke, Peter admired the painting slightly more. The empty, cold feeling began to fade, and the static void began to take a new form, representing the tension that hung between him and Fisk. The careful tread between conflicting ideas.

Tightening his grip on Peter’s shoulders, Fisk’s voice dropped to a quieter level. “Those who fight unwinnable battles, end up like Mr Stryker.” His hand gestured to the scattered newspapers that coated the coffee table. “Or worse, they become forgotten. Consumed by their own pride – because this city is merciless, Peter.”

“Maybe you’re right, Mr Fisk.” There a subtle defiance in his words, an honest and proud refusal to accept the ideas, but to simultaneously allow Fisk to continue the belief. He straightened himself and his face flourished with a newfound confidence. “But if everyone avoided the unwinnable battles, then the world would look different. Those what-ifs would be worse.”

“Yet a world of endless battles only breeds chaos.” Peter couldn’t quite read whether Fisk’s eyes were laced with curiosity, pride or irritation, though his voice was clearly toned with a menacing pique. “Leave the idealism to those willing to lose everything over nothing.” Fisk’s hand left his shoulder, and there was a finality to the words. A declaration that their discussion had ended, that Fisk would no longer entertain the theoretical concepts brought to him.

“Thank you, Mr Fisk.” Peter replied, bearing a small and courteous smile. He began to head for the door, before he was caught frozen as Fisk called out.

“Peter, you’re an intelligent young man. Just be careful where your curiosity leads you.” Peter smiled and nodded, catching a sight of the vast cityscape that lingered behind the endless glass walls.

***

“You know that we don’t have to meet on rooftops, right? And you don’t need the costume, Peter.” Matt remarked, aware of the homemade Spiderman costume that Peter donned before him. In the air, Matt could smell the fabric, he could hear the wind hitting the black plastic goggles and the slight straining of breath that Peter had beneath the mask.

Down below the rooftop, the city continued with it’s morning. Cars tumbled along the streets, with distant horns and sirens filling the ambience. People shouting in their homes and from cars and on the phone beckoned throughout. Scents of bagels, doughnuts, sandwiches all filtered through the air, dominated by a strong consistent smell of coffee which permeated throughout almost every corner of the city. Steam rose from vents, construction workers pulled themselves to work, and people rushed to get to work.

Except for Matt, who had agreed to meet Peter Parker concerning some damning news about Fisk.

“This is important superhero business.”

“Trust me, kid, it’s not that serious.” There was a grave tone to Matt’s words. Even to Peter, who had been unaware of the dealings Matt had undergone recently, it was clear that Matt spoke from a haunting experience. Instinctively, Peter wanted to question and investigate and understand the secret life of the masked man, but he resisted. “What is it?” Matt asked after an awkward moment of silence passed his words.

“Have you heard the news this morning? About Willis Stryker?”

“Who?” Matt quickly asked, having never heard the name in his dealings with Fisk. In fact, that very feeling of a lack of knowledge irritated Matt slightly, although he resisted any demonstration of that.

“Some guy in Harlem. Huge crime boss – Fisk’s number one enemy. Put him across all the newspapers in the city, an exposé about him.” Peter eagerly explained, the flapping of a newspaper catching the gentle breeze. The corner of the page jittered in his hand, nipped by the wind as the it glided across the rooftop. “It was like a complete takedown. Fisk made him out to be the worst of the worst, and from the looks of it, it doesn’t look good for Diamondback. It’s calling for his arrest, as well as actually being quite personal.” There was intrigue and excitement toning Peter’s voice as he clasped onto the flapping paper. His involvement in the whole ordeal was a dream come true, playing his part in saving the world – even if it was just New York City crime bosses.

“If Fisk wanted to, he could probably dig up dirt on just about anyone in this city. But to focus on just one single guy must mean there’s something more than business. But why target a man we’ve never heard of? Harlem’s been complaining about Cottonmouth last I heard… not Diamondback.”

“Snakes!” Peter exclaimed, almost as though he’d cracked something. “Two crime bosses named after snakes – that has to mean something.”

“It means they both like snakes.” Matt replied bluntly, followed by a heavy exhale. Whilst he was more than happy to entertain Peter’s search for heroism, he also needed to make sure that Peter stayed focus. Tangents on aliases wouldn’t lead them anywhere and only distracted from the bigger issue at hand. “So this hit all the papers, front page?”

At first, Peter attempted to show Matt the cover, but the rustling of the paper in the wind was all that Matt could sense. Awkwardly realising his mistake, Peter pulled the paper back and began to read it. “Diamondback Exposed: The True Dace of Harlem’s Crime Lord.” Matt’s head tilted, intrigued as Peter’s eyes and voice ran along the bold, brash headlined etched into the paper’s fabric. “It’s a full-on character assassination, everything from his teenage years with a guy called Carl Lucas, to how he intercepted the criminal world.”

“If Fisk is doing this to push Styker out, then it’s not just taking him down. Fisk doesn’t want to just move someone out his place, he’s making Stryker a public target. Moving attention towards Diamondback and away from whatever Fisk is doing.” Matt frowned as his jaw tightened. His face filled with curiosity and questions, his head eventually snapping back to Peter. “Any clue what he’s currently doing? Like big operations?”

“He and Mariah Dillard are up to something. He says for her campaign, but besides that, I’m not sure.”

Matt paused, halted by a process of trying to piece together the information offered to him. Tilting his head thoughtfully, listening to the quiet thrum of the city below, he tried to form a bigger picture of the dealings. “Fisk and Dillard have been hunting down vigilantes – but they’ve not been very successful. Most vigilantes are still out and about, just operating quietly… so maybe it’s something to do with that?”

“I could check his office – see if I fin–”

“No.” Matt retorted with incredibly speed, as his head snapped to Peter. A serious and stern glare toned his face. “I don’t want you putting yourself in any more danger than you already are. Besides, I’m meeting Fisk later anyway. If I notice anything then, I’ll let you know.”

***

Fisk admired the purple tinted urn that sat upon a shelf, alongside a small collection of other souvenirs. Reminders of his past, echoes of his victories, pieces of the puzzle that formed his identity. The urn glinted in the sunlight, ironically bringing beauty amongst a small jar which contained the ashes of a man that Fisk undoubtedly considered to be a man of evil. Of everything, it was one of his most prized possessions – after all, not many people could boast about possessing the cremated remains of the devil.

The doors to the penthouse were carefully opened, as Fisk’s midday meeting was set to commence. A meeting etched into his ledger just yesterday, and one which gave him excitable delight. He turned his head to watch as a guard walked Matthew Murdock through his doors, assisting him along the penthouse entrance, whilst a tapping of his cane echoed throughout the room.

“Mr Murdock,” Fisk’s booming voice dragged Matt’s head towards him within an instant, as it echoed through the room with incredible might. “What a pleasure to have you here!” With the warmth of an expected host, Fisk approached Matt and took his hand to shake. He offered some water, or some sushi he had prepared that morning, but Matt politely refused.

Instead, he nodded and smiled. Around the room was the clinical scent of cleanliness, blended with Fisk’s strong cologne and the freshly served sushi and the leather of the furniture. Yet, something was more poignant to Matt. Whilst his ears caught the sounds of heartbeats, in the room he detected three. His own, Fisk’s, and another man – who had not made himself known, nor had Fisk drawn attention to him.

“Mr Fisk, thank you for having me.” Matt replied calmly, keeping his face neutral as he adjusted his grip on his cane.  Matt reared his head towards the heartbeat, his ears catching the sound of it spiking slightly as it was drawn under focus. “I didn’t realise we’d have company.” Remarked Matt, his head focused solely on the direction of the heartbeat and shallow breathing.

Fisk swivelled around and stared in confusion, as he watched Matt stare blankly in an empty and odd direction. Fisk raised an eyebrow, approaching the lawyer, before tilting his head in an attempt catch a glimpse of the spectre that Matt had his attention snapped by. “We – We don’t have company, Mr Murdock. This meeting is just between us – given our history, I wouldn’t encroach on that.” Fisk tried to be reassuring, attempting to hide the evident concern he had by Matt’s strange fixation on the air.

Matt proceeded to shake off the feeling of another presence, although absolutely confident that there was another person present. Lowering himself into his seat, Matt simply cleared his throat and glared into Fisk’s direction. Calmness was all Matt could infer from Fisk’s heartbeat, an unphased response to the world around him and undeterred by Matt’s strange episode.

“I’ll be honest, Fisk.” Matt had broken the formality; his voice lowered an expression of deep seriousness etched itself into his face. “I’m here because of Kilgrave.”

Uttering the name felt like sin itself. It was a bitter world, leaving a foul aftertaste. Fisk’s felt his hand twitch, almost a muscle memory of the hefty battering of Kilgrave’s face. In his mind, Fisk recalled the moment Kilgrave died. A moment of satisfaction and calm in a world of chaos. There was a glint of sinister calm in Fisk’s eyes, mirroring the soothing notion buried in his mind. “Kilgrave is dead. I took care of that myself.” He spoke with certainty, a confidence that felt dangerous to counter.

“No, he’s not.” Matt leaned forward, his heart pounding in his chest as he replayed the memories of encountering the devil. Fisk’s spike of heart and tightening of fist all indicated a buried rage, as his confidence was countered. Matt had dared to consider him wrong. “Listen, everything that you think you did was an illusion. Was an act – Kilgrave is alive. His death was orchestrated.” Matt spoke with a heightened sense of panic, the words flying from his mouth as the very sensation of Kilgrave lingering over his shoulder returned.

“What do you mean, an illusion?” Fisk’s question was more of a demand, an urgent call for information as a rare hint of doubt seeded itself in his voice. With a strong and furious glare, Fisk stared down at Matt, waiting impatiently for an explanation. Rage fed itself from the feeling of being called wrong, and made worse by the appearance of honesty that lined Matt’s face.

“Kilgrave had allies – people fighting his corner. People who have worked in the shadows and mastered the art of puppetry. He faked his death – he created what you saw and what you held onto, as all part of his plan to mislead you.” Matt calmed down now, recalling the lengthy explanation that Kilgrave had provided back in the ruins of an English castle. For a moment, he recalled the cologne and the tapping leather of his shoes. “It worked. You’ve been clinging onto a shadow.”

Fisk glanced at the urn, his prized trophy, gleaming in the sunlight. Despite the polished surface and spotless surface, the urn was tarnished by the reveal that it was a fake. A hoax. The cremated remains were not of Kilgrave’s. “How? How did he manage to fool us?” Fisk questioned, still slightly clinging onto the hope that Matt was mistaken.

“To cut a long story short, he switched with a duplicate at the hospital. He wore a piece of technology called a spy veil – changes the appearance and voice of the wearer. They copied his suit and cologne and made him indistinguishable.”

Fisk chuckled, for a moment thinking he had found the loophole. The flaw and plot hole in the narrative Matt had spun before him. “But, surely, I would have destroyed this spy veil.” Matt didn’t need to reply. Swirling in Fisk’s mind was a greater understanding of how seamlessly the plan had been pulled off. A brief silence followed, in which Fisk considered the implications. The spy veil was likely destroyed when Kilgrave’s face was worn down into the concrete, and the clothes and cologne played enough of a part of conviction.  “But Miss Elektra – she was under his control.” Fisk’s hope to find another loophole failed, because he remembered she was with the real Kilgrave beforehand.

Matt felt unease in the silence, with the other presence growing louder and clearer in the absence of any other noise or motion. Taking a steady breath, Matt’s voice pierced the air as he hesitantly spoke. “Kilgrave is alive and he’s preparing something far worse than you could imagine. He’s been… building alliances, playing and using people like pawns, hiding himself.”

“You seem to know a great deal about his plans, Matthew. How did you come to know this?” Still lingering in his voice, as an echo of persistence, Fisk continued with doubt.

“I met him.” Matt tried to explain the situation without giving away specifics of SHIELD and HYDRA’s battling operations. “I can’t explain too much, but he’s using crime syndicates and terrorist agencies all so that he can amass an army of people with powers. Like, proper superhero powers. Inhumans, they’re called.”

“And so he plans to take over the city? Because if you think Kilgrave would dare challenge me, he would be incredibly foolish.”

Matt chuckled, almost amused by such a humble idea. He shook his head, and spoke with a sternness in his voice. “New York isn’t his goal. At the very least he wants to take over the country, at most the world.”

“I should’ve known he would never have accepted defeat so easily.” A silence followed. Fisk’s fists clenched fully, almost cutting off all circulation of blood. His fingers tightened against his palm and his brow furrowed with a storm of rage burning in his eyes. “How, exactly, is he amassing these people? These… Inhumans?” He asked sceptically, his voice toned with some intrigue.

“His original plan was a powerful Inhuman who could control others. That plan fell through at first, but there’s no guarantee he hasn’t begun to get back on track.”

“He won’t succeed. Not while I’m here.” Fisk spoke with resolute arrogance.

“You can’t beat him on muscle alone.” Muttered Matt, cautiously. Another silence followed, and hanging in the air was the realisation that all that could be said, had been said. Matt still couldn’t quite shake the feeling of another presence. So, as he began to pull himself up and prepare himself to leave, he looked back to Fisk earnestly. The clinking of his cane broke the silence, before his own voice interjected. “Just remember, Fisk. Kilgrave knows your weakness, and he’ll play them against you without hesitation. A man like Kilgrave can hold a grudge, and is likely willing to exploit anything, and everything, to get revenge.”

“Rest assured, Matthew, Kilgrave would regret to underestimate me.” His offered a curt nod and a calm tone. Yet his statement didn’t change Matt’s position, who instead stood and stared.

“Or, anyone and everyone.” Matt added, his quiet voice a clear alarm for Fisk. As he turned to leave, tapping his cane along the penthouse floor, his ears tuned themselves to the sound of another heartbeat. Were Fisk perceptive enough to catch Matt’s hints was any man’s guess – but, for the sake of having an firm ally against Kilgrave, Matt hoped so.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Bound by guilt and driven by an unyielding sense of justice, Luke Cage had carried the weight of his decisions for a long time. Despite his innocence, he carried the burden of a manipulation of the system – the false accusation of the murder of an officer. Even now, as a man who had roamed free for almost two years, he carried the weight of his decision of running away.

Yet, with the reveal of Willis Stryker’s former dealings, and the face of Carl Lucas is exposed to the world, a question is asked: can a hero reclaim his name when his past refuses to let him go?

***

Returned to a cell.

The veil that covered the face of Carl Lucas had been lifted, and the life of Luke Cage had been revealed to merely be a ruse. The scruffy and angered face of the inmate had now returned, with the bald, clean-shaven bartender merely a figment of New York life. Now sitting in a cell, hunched over a bed and listening to the noises of the other prisoners, Carl had lost himself.

The wall before him was plain and white. The cracks of the bricks were plastered over and the wall itself had tiny specs that drew Carl’s attention during the quiet moments in his day. Despite being the main sight of the cell, the wall wasn’t all to his luxurious view. A metallic seatless toilet glimmered in the fluorescent light above, which glared with brightness and power. Meanwhile, Carl’s eyes lingered on the thin mattress and the rusting metal bars of his cell. He growled at the sight of them, feeling the primal nature of a caged animal return to him.

Carl had been brought back to prison as a mere side-effect to Diamondback’s exposé. In revealing to the world that Diamondback was prowling the streets like a vicious creature, eyes feel upon Diamondback’s friend-in-youth: Carl Lucas. Instantly, upon hearing the news, Carl knew his time was up. He considered running – taking advantage of the freedom of the wind, relishing in the quiet of the night. Yet he knew it wouldn’t last – or that his silence couldn’t prevail. With the strength that he possessed, he’d conjure a glaring sight soon enough and the futility of his attempted escape would reveal itself even more.

Instead, he handed himself in. Hands in cuffs that pushed against his impenetrable fists and was drawn back into a police cell. Willingly, he stripped himself of the new life he had made and sat for days.

Every morning, he was told he had visitors – and it wasn’t until his sixth day in prison, that he finally relented. In truth, he didn’t know why he had relented nor what had driven him to give in, but he did regardless. He sauntered out from his jail cell to a roar of excitement from the other inmates, who had all heard of the invincible hero of Harlem. From their cells, he was merely an animal to be jeered at – with the irony being that they were behind cells during his wander towards a visitor’s room.

Carl wandered in, and the life of Carl Lucas was swiftly replaced by his new one. Two friends who had dabbled in his legal issues before sat before him. They had come to free Luke Cage, with little regard for the supposed crimes of Carl Lucas.

Luke sat down. The chair creaked beneath his weight and he felt the chains tighten as he was restrained to the table. Two guards hovered by the door with curious and keen eyes, almost tempted to call for reinforcements each time they glanced towards the hulking man. Before Luke, there were also two other men. Both donned black suits, opened jackets and thin ties. Leather briefcases rested on the table, packed with notes and records – whilst their main distinctive features were the shaggy blonde hair and the red tinted glasses.

Foggy was the first to smile at Luke, whilst Matt had to be alerted of the change in facial expressions of Luke.

“I have no interest in getting out.” Luke began, breaking the awkward silence that simmered between Foggy and Luke. Luke scowled, still unimpressed by their presence. “I did my crime. This is my time.”

“But did you really?” Remarked Foggy, grinning as his fingers interlocked and he leant across the table. “Because your old crime you committed was already linked back to Willis – There’s just a slither of evidence that tips you over to the edge of being the perpetuator.” Foggy bolstered with pride, taking a glint of determined fury from Luke’s face, who stared with some reasonable confidence.

“I…” Luke went to speak, but he caught his reflection in the glasses of Matt. He thought about the lie he was about to tell, feeling the heartbeat pound, but decided against it. “I broke out of prison, Foggy.” Luke stated calmly, the focus in his heart now returning. Except, the confidence faltered as he caught a glimpse of himself in the reflection of Matt’s glasses, which shielded the eyes of a disapproving face.

“Records suggest that you were mistreated in the facility.” Matt stated, running his hand over a braille report. “But then, the ultimate mistreatment was a racist attack – when you were experimented on by an officer who had received five notices about his conduct around you. Complaints made by a member of staff.”

Luke hoped. In his mind was a flicker of a memory – the face of a woman he loved. Perhaps it was her, protecting him all that time… Reva.

“Listen.” Luke now spoke angrily. It wasn’t just a mere expression written across his face, but now a tone to his voice. He learnt forward, which provoked a chattering of the chains to the table. “I broke out of prison. I ran away. Don’t matter if some racist white dude turned me into a freak with powers. Carl Lucas committed a crime, and I’ll be punished accordingly.”

“But you were never meant to be in prison!” Foggy expelled, passionate about the cause at hand. “You know that – so it’s only right that we get you out of here.”

Luke glanced across, unphased by the hope that permeated from Foggy’s mouth. He shook his head. “I just want peace. I’ve been running for so long, and with Willis still about… being in here allows me to breathe… even if it’s behind bars.” Luke’s voice softened, yet his voice still remained hard and determined, as though a mask concealed a raging storm beneath. “Willis wanted this – and if I walk out… free? He’ll make sure the blow lands harder – on me, or someone I care about. I already lost Reva. I can’t lost someone else.”

Matt’s raised hand prevented Foggy’s open mouth from uttering a response. Instead, he let the room fall quiet, with only the buzzing hum of the fluorescent lights above to sing in the quiet. Matt tilted his head, his ears focusing on the repetitive noises in the room. The buzzing, droning and constant, and the steadiness of Luke’s heartbeat as it pounded in his chest beneath the hardened skin. The man’s breathing was heavy and his eyes stared to Foggy, hoping for a resolution.

“Luke,” Matt began calmly and firmly, his head tuned to the pounding of his heart. “This isn’t about running or hiding. Foggy and I – we just want justice. Real justice. You’ve been wronged by so many people and staying here, refusing to fight… it won’t make it right. It won’t protect anyone. Willis is out there still – goodness knows where – and you being kept in here only strengthens his narrative.”

Luke frowned as he glanced down towards the chain that bound his hands to the table. “What do you know about narratives, Matt? You think a couple of legal tricks are gonna change minds? I’m a monster to some people with these powers already – not to mention the police and to my customers.”

“I know it’s not easy.” Matt replied, trying his bets not to lose hope as his ears focused on the unwavering rhythm of Luke’s heartbeat. Releasing a heavy sigh, he leant forward and attempted another approach. “But I also know you’re not a monster. You’ve poured so much effort into fighting for Harlem and that goodness doesn’t disappear because a corrupt system labels you.”

Narrowing his eyes, Luke leaned back. Pressing deep in his mind was the conflict between peace and truth. His eyes flitted between Foggy, whose determination hadn’t yet faltered, and the steady fixation of Matt. Even behind the crimson of the lenses and the blank blind eyes, he felt the raging desire for justice. Something about it calmed him – reminded him of why he had trusted the two men in the first place.

He stared at the pair one final time, as the walls of the prison felt as though that had been closing in on him, closing in tighter. His mind raced, torn between the easiness of resignation and the tugging rope of hope. Eventually, Luke sighed. His shoulders relaxed and peace and tranquillity overcame him.

“Alright.” Luke’s deep voice reluctantly accepted the sharp focus of determination carried by the men. “You want to fight for me? Fine. But if this blows up – if more people get hurt, because of me, that’s on you – that’s on you, and we pull the plug immediately.”

Matt and Foggy exchanged a glance, a small smile tugging at Foggy’s lips. “We’ll take that chance,” Foggy said, standing up and gathering his briefcase. Matt sat motionless for a moment, listening to the heartbeat, before his attention swayed off course. He listened to the prison cells, focused on miscellaneous conversations that served to prove nothing in his strife against crime.

***

Days had passed. The hope of freedom hung on trials and legal processes, all of which Luke knew would take their time. He knew getting an innocent man out of jail was hard enough, let alone a man found guilty in a court of law. Evidence was needed and the case needed investigation by various agencies.

Yet, Luke accepted this fate. He carried the burden and waited day-by-day for the eventual hope of freedom. He hope justice could be served and that his innocence declared, before he could return to saving Harlem from the poisons of corruption that seeded and rooted themselves deep within.

However, it wasn’t until a week had passed, when Luke’s sleep was disturbed by a creeping feeling of being watched. His ears had tuned themselves to strange noises at night – being kept on guard, with he impending feeling that being caught with his powers would escalate the attention he was glad to be deflecting. He practically kept an eye open at night, and his ears on constant surveillance.

The night was still, but a place like prison could never truly feel peaceful. Lying on his back, Luke stared at the swirls of the ceiling above, making sense of the cracks and the scratches. He tried to shake the sense of unease away, however with the faint snoring of a nearby inmate and the occasional shuffle of a guard’s boot along the hallway, unease clasped onto his mind with crooked claws.

In the vacuum of sounds, the silence was disturbed. Luke felt his muscles tense as quiet footsteps wandered through the corridor, slowly approaching his own cell. Yet, as he glanced through the metallic bars, he saw nobody. His eyes glared towards the source, but found that the air seemingly held it’s breath in the absence of something… yet, as Luke glanced forward, his eyes caught the wavering sight of something. A figure stood before him, outside of his cell, with the dim nighttime lights glaring through the windows.

A shadow sneered at Luke, which the softness of was defied by a fierce sharpness that cut through the stillness. “Nice digs, Carl.” Remarked the jeering voice, which took Luke only a couple seconds to attribute to Willis. Even in the stillness of the night, and the ghostly spectre of the man, he could pinpoint that voice with incredible ease.

Luke shot up, his eyes scanning the source, but ultimately finding nothing. “Willis…” He growled, with his voice echoing in the small cell.

“You’ve got good instincts, I’ll give you that.” Willis’ voice was still mocking, fixed in it’s place in the corridor. Even in the invisible stance he held, there was no doubting that Willis’ glaring eyes had fixed themselves onto Luke. Watching, snarling, jeering, ravishing the scene of imprisonment. “But I guess you’d have to have good instincts in a place like this. Back in the cage… right where you belong.”

“You belong here too, Willis.” Luke’s fists clenched tight at his sides, like spring coils fastening. “You belong here more than me. And soon, I’ll make you suffer in a place like this.”

“Oh really? You’ll make me, eh?” There was a tone of mockery in Willis’ voice, promptly followed by a metallic clang from the bars, as knuckles tapped against them. Luke glared into the hallway, trying to discern where Willis was, but he found nothing. Yet, the most bizarre aspect of it all, was the fact he was certain the voice was coming from ahead of him – that Willis was undoubtedly stood before the bars. “That’s rich, considering you can’t even see me.”

“I can see you.” Luke bluffed, staring into the strange wispy air. He convinced himself that the weird shifting of light was at least a spectre – that Willis must have died and come back from the dead… or something akin to that. After all, it had been months since anyone had seen Willis, it already seemed he had been whisked into the wind. Perhaps that was literal.

“No, you can’t.” He remarked coldly and quickly, grinning audibly. “But I’ll give you credit, Carl. You’ve got guts. Always did, even back when I was smacking you down on the regular. Remember though, If you’re going to fight me, you better make sure I stay down. ‘Strike the shepherd, and the sheep will scatter.’”

“The name’s Luke.” Barked Luke, mirroring the cold and snappy nature of Willis’ voice.

“Ah… ‘The spirit of the Lord is on me, because he has anointed me to proclaim good news to the poor. He has sent me to proclaim freedom for the prisoners and recovery of sight to the blind, to set the oppressed free.’ Nice choice, Luke.” Willis’ quote of the bible was perfect, precise and practiced. Rehearsed to a specific degree, and delivered with bitterness. “How’s that working out for you?”

“It was working fine, until you upset the wrong people.”

“The wrong people upset me.” Carl snarled at the suggestion. He deflected the blame and rage resonated in his voice, though this didn’t taint his words. Instead, his words were still laced with a bitterness, a foul grudge held in his chest. “But that all began with you, Carl.”

“What do you want?” Luke demanded with his voice rumbling with a dangerous fit of anger. He growled and stared with a furious dagger-like stare.

“I just want to remind you who you really are. You can slap the name Luke Cage on yourself, but you’re still the scared little boy I used to beat down back in the day. And now, the whole world knows it. Law 37, create compelling spectacles… The man with unbreakable skin bound in prison.”

Even without seeing Willis, Luke managed to stare straight into him. His gaze swept the corridor for a moment, before falling upon him. Deep in his chest, with skin built like a fortress, his heart pounded with a mix of resolve and anger. “You don’t know a damn thing about me. You never did, and you especially don’t know.”

“I know enough, Carl–”

“Luke!” He snarled.

“I know enough, Carl.” Willis paused, waiting to see if Luke would temper the determination he held to say the true name of the man before him. “Because I was working the shadows that whole time. I framed you. I put you in prison. I got you onto that experiment list – all with the hopes that you would die in some horrible way. But trusting your fucking holier-than-thou luck, you got superpowers.”

“These aren’t a gift from god, Willis. They’re a curse.”

“But you still used that cursed to disrupt my damn business.” Willis growled. “All I had to do was put two and two together and I realsied quickly that the man who was sauntering around Harlem, getting shot but with no wounds, was the only bulletproof black man.” He paused, a silence feel between them with neither knowing what to say next. “You know, you’d make more money if you folded to the white man and let them shoot at you. At least then you’d be a worthy show-monkey, rather than skulking in the shadows stealing from honest men.”

“Skulking in the shadows?” Luke smirked at the suggestion. “Says the man literally hiding in the dark?”

“Hiding? You think I’m hiding? Nah, Carl, I’m just watching. Watching you rot. Watching the secret hero of Harlem sit powerless in a cage. And you know what? It suits you. Right where you belong.”

Luke heard a faint clang of the metal and his eyes snapped towards the source of the sound. Staring forward, he watched as the shimmering flitting air pulsated with a strange motion of a ripple, subtle at first, like heat haze on a distant summer road. The light warped unnaturally, bending and shifting, until the strange distortion condensed into something clearly tangible and visible. Layer by layer, the effect peeled away and revealed skin. Dark skin that now appeared scaley and reptilian in texture. It glistened under the dim moonlight that cast itself into the corridor, rippling like water settling on a surface and slowly giving shape to an outline of a man.

Within seconds, the shifting air solidified entirely, and the figure of Willis Stryker formed before him. The man, who had been hunted down by various men across the city of New York, now stood beyond the cell of Luke. Naked and unapologetic, his tall and muscular frame gleamed with an unnatural sheen as the remnants of the invisibility wore off and faded like dying embers.

Willis’ chiseled face was last to emerge from the darkness. Yet, once it did, it was unmistakable. His wild eyes glared forward to Luke’s, resonating with manic glee and simmering fury; the edges of his lips tugged and twisted his mouth into a vicious grin, bearing sight to the whites of his sharp teeth.

“Who’s hiding now, Carl.”

“You’re definitely all on show.” Luke remarked, having caught an unfortunate sight of the entirety of Willis. He held his head up, staring at the figure of moonlight dancing against the blankness of the cell’s walls, whilst the corner of his eyes were tethered with he animalistic expression of the man’s eyes. “Cold?”

“A little.” With his quiet reply, slightly serious but also dismissive, Willis’ grin widened. His eyes, almost bulging out from his head, gleamed with feverish intensity. Between them, tension thickened like smoke, curling in the confined space of the bars. “You know, Carl, I got thinking.” His voice was tipped with the venom of an ancient grudge. “If a washed-up ex-con like you could get powers from Dr Burstein’s little experiment… why couldn’t I? After all, if either of us deserved to be an underdog, it was me.” His hands let go of the bars and clasped together, whilst his twisting grin fixed itself to his face.

Luke felt his jaw tighten, as his mind burned with recognition for a moment, until he attached the name to a face. A flood of memories from that very night hit his mind and seeped into his consciousness for a moment – panicked and terrified. “You went after Burstein?” Luke remarked, trying to make sense of Willis’ remark. All whilst his mind recalled the burning of the liquid and the cold metallic equipment strapped to his body, and the bruised eye and the bubbling and buzzing…

“Damn right I did.” Willis face was caught beneath the dim overlight head, glistening the sweat on his brow as a testament to the raw energy that coursed through his body. “I tracked him down and forced him to replicate his precious little science project. Easier than you’d think, considering the man has been hiding in terror for the past few years. He assured me it would work – and I thought I’d be walking away with skin tougher than steel, just like my old friend, Carl Lucas. The new Captain America I would’ve been.”

Luke’s lips curled into a sneer, his voice carrying a humoured glee. “But something went wrong?”

Willis opted to not reply with words. Instead, he held out his arm dramatically. Luke watched confused, expecting words to explain the situation, but only experiencing a theatrical display of twitching fingers which splayed out wide as though he was watching the showcase of a prized possession. Yet, as Luke felt his patience thinning, his eyes spotted ripples spread across his skin, like a pond disturbed by a gentle shower of rain. His skin began to shimmer, and Luke watched as it warped and faded, with he dark brown tone slowly dissolving into a transparent shifting of light.

Feeling his stomach churn, Luke’s eyes stared at the invisible forearm. He was baffled by the sight, but questions failed to express themselves as words before Willis took the chance to speak.

“Instead of unbreakable skin, I got this neat little trick. Invisibility – which turns out to have it’s own perks.” Willis’ voice was triumphant, even impressed slightly still by the ability. He stared down at the smooth scalelike texture of his skin, as it danced to reshape itself in patches and reversing ripples. The most disconcerting part was the unnatural gleam of it all. It was far from seamless, and in fact seemed botched if anything.

“’Master the art of timing, and you’ll master the game’. I’ve been patient. Watching, biding my time. And now, look at me. I’ve got what you don’t. What you never will.”

“You seriously let Burstein experiment on you? What? Trying to prove you’re better than me? That’s – No, you’re pathetic Willis.”

“Better than you?” Willis smirked and chuckled at the mere suggesting, with his veins bulging out from his neck. “This wasn’t to prove anything. It was about taking what’s mine – Harlem’s mine. ‘The strong do what they can, and the weak suffer what they must’, Thucydides. Sure, it didn’t work out the way I wanted, but a superpower is still a superpower. Now, there’s nothing that can stop me.”

Luke leaned closer, with his towering frame casting a shadow over the smaller man. “Yeah? And what are you gonna do with it, Willis? Sneak around and spy on people? You’re still the same coward you’ve always been. Fancy powers won’t change that.”

Willis retorted with a bitter laugh.

“Coward, huh? You’re the one behind bars, Carl. You think you’re some big-shot hero with that skin? But now, you’re powerless. Caged. While I’m out there building an empire. Connections. Resources. Respect. Law 1, Never Outshine the Master, ‘Power is a game, and there’s nothing to stop you from playing it.’ And you? You’ll rot in here, forgotten.”

“You’re not untouchable.” Luke remarked. “Fisk is out there hunting you down. Cornell is out there against your little tirade. Sooner or later, I’ll find a way to bring you down – if nobody else manages it beforehand.” Luke felt a heat rise in his chest, a burning rage and fury engulfing his heart.

There was a darker twist to his smile. “I’d like to see you try.” His voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, as his eyes narrowed and leaned in closer. The pause and silence lingered with an uncomfortable nature. “But there’s something you don’t know. Something dear old daddy never told you. Something that gives me the edge in this – that makes me more determined to win than you ever could.”

“What are you talking about?” Luke asked, his brow furrowing with confusion flickering across his face. Willis laughed.

Although Willis shucked softly, it was devoid of any real humour.

“Your father – that great and esteemed preacher, James Lucas? The man who raised you. Loved you. Gave you everything? He had a secret.” The laughter died, as did any passion or joy in his voice. The mockery faded, replaced with the ancient grudge once again. “Well, more accurately, he had many secrets, most of which weren’t very secret to a lot of people besides you. Because whilst your mother was growing old and tired, he turned to another woman. Younger and far prettier. His secretary… Danna Stryker, my mother.”

Luke’s eyes widened with shock as he considered the connection. It took him a brief moment, before promptly rendering him speechless.

“That’s right.” Willis continued, the venom from his tongue now dripping into the words, with each utterance spiteful. “I’m your brother. The one he cast aside and denied and left to rot while he doted on you. Always second-best, even to our father. Luke, 12:2, ‘For there is nothing covered that will not be revealed, nor hidden that will not be known.’” This small factor pieced a lifetime of puzzles together. Luke stared in shock. “But not anymore – because I suppose I lied when I said I wasn’t proving anything… Because I’m proving something to Reverand James Lucas. I’m proving he was wrong to favour you.”

A tempest raged inside Luke’s mind. A mix of emotions swirled around, confusing him to each degree, his only words being quietly spoken. “Willis… I – I didn’t know.” Although to an extent that was true, the knowledge of this now made him question all those strange conversations and sights. The shut doors, the glaring eyes…

“Of course you didn’t.” Willis spat. “You had the perfect life, perfect family, while I was left to the wolves. Ignored and abandoned. But now the tables have turned… Enjoy your stay in prison, brother. It’s where you belong.”

Chapter Text

Time and space and reality are my domain to watch. However, as I watch the turning wheels of time of this universe bring it closer to this day, I feel the guilt of my inaction.

The alteration of time, from Kilgrave meeting Matt Murdock all that time ago, has led to this single day. I have watched as Matthew has struggled with himself, and as Jessica Jones has struggled against the control of Kilgrave. I have watched unlikely alliances between Kilgrave and the Hand and HYDRA, and the death of his parents. I have seen the heroism of Luke Cage before his time, and the saving of Frank Castle. I watched as Harlem’s power transformed and transferred, and as the Agents of SHIELD have grown and shrunk in their numbers.

Yet, now those threads of time interweave. Unbeknownst to these heroes, the meeting of Matthew Murdock and Kilgrave was headed for it’s end on this fatal day. With the curse finally put to an end.

To you, the 2^nd of February 2016 was the day that Stephen Strange was led to his destiny as Sorcerer Supreme – but in this universe, it is the day Kilgrave and Hive sought to seize their power.

*Ryker’s Island – 2^nd February 10.34 AM (EST)*

An uneasy truce hung in the air of the interview room, mixing with the concoction of beating hearts of the four men and the two guards outside, and the faint humming of the lights above, and the scent of the river outside the prison’s walls. Matt listened to every sound, and caught the scent of every smell. He could taste the tinge of salt that held in the air, tainted by the musty smell of mold that formed itself in the far end of the room. The rattling of chains and creaking of metallic tables and chairs. The sounds of prisoners far inside the jail cell and the boats travelling along the waters outside.

Matt’s senses finetuned themselves into the room, focusing on the three people prepared for a lengthy conversation about the dreaded Stryker. Foggy and Matt sat alongside Luke, sandwiching his hulking body which was confined to a prison-issued orange jumpsuit which obnoxiously glared under the dim lights above. Foggy and Matt sat in prisne and crisp suits, well prepared and ironed for this very meeting – though their suits had nothing in comparison to the body-armoured jacked that Fisk donned. He and Matt both had canes, which sat behind them at opposite ends of the room, leaning against the wall.

Despite Matt and Fisk having buried the hatchet regarding their past dispute, meeting the towering mass of man still unnerved Matt. Their lives had become a tangled mess that Matt had tried to untangle, with his stint in prison and hiring to protect Vanessa all confusing the relationship between Fisk and he.

Meanwhile Foggy, who had heard the stories of Wilson Fisk, sat uncomfortably. Written across his face was a face of confidence, knowing the details of the situation. He knew how close they were to reaching a releasing pardon for Luke, based on the lack of evidence and the mistreatment in prison – and so he used that pride and knowledge and reassurance in keeping the mask alive. He knew that Fisk was one chance to free Luke – and so he had to play the part of a competent lawyer.

“Mr Cage.” Fisk began, smiling as he nodded his head to three in quick succession. His head shimmered with the reflection of the dim light above, whilst his eyes gleamed with power and calculations. “I am curious as to why I have been summoned – as a former associate of Mr Stryker, I am surprised to see you. But, if the information you are prepared to give me is valuable, I’ll make sure your time in here is shortened considerably.”

Luke shook his head. “I don’t trust you, Fisk. The deals you’ve made with people like Cottonmouth and Mariah Dillard don’t sit right with me. The vision you have for this city is ignorant to the real injustice that people are experiencing down below. And each day you pursue this world you want – the more enemies you muster up.”

“I didn’t come here to make enemies, Mr Cage – but if that’s what you intend-”

“No, no–” Foggy interjected. “I think my client just feels some frustration that he wants to voice, which is understandable… considering your actions landed him back in prison after a traumatic experience.” Foggy shot a worried glance back to Luke, whose eyes defied that very sentiment, but he dismissively nodded his head in some effort to get back the chance to speak.

With a deep and heavy sigh, Luke glanced back to Fisk. “But I also understand that Stryker currently poses a bigger threat to Harlem – and quite frankly, you can do whatever you want for this city. You can run Hell’s Kitchen into the ground and strip the white men of their powers to fight crime. But Styker’s too close to the people I care about.”

“How noble.” Fisk remarked, his frustration fading from his eyes as he admired the heroism in Luke’s demeanour. “So what do you know about Mr Stryker that may… convince me to help you?”

Luke glanced towards Foggy and Matt, his eyes flickering between them as he considered his response. In his mind he had rehearsed his response long ago, but now the actual result was expected and he felt an anxiety ring in his heart.

“There’s a doctor – Dr. Burnstein.” Luke began, finally caving in and ignoring the hesitation that instinctively appeared when talking about himself. “He ran an experiment at Seagate and when it went wrong with me, I escaped. But Stryker thought he could use the experiment. It wasn’t successful with me, but Willis thought that it might be successful for him…” He chose his words carefully. Knowledge of Luke’s impenetrable skin was on the cusp of public knowledge, it was trapped in a limbo of being incredibly well-known and being privately held information. Keeping those cards close to his chest, he played around with the truth ever so slightly. “Since the last time I saw him, Stryker hunted Burnstein down. Forced him to conduct the experiment on him. The experiment failed him – but not like with me, where the machinery just exploded… but it had some results. It gave him invisible skin.”

The room filled with a silence. Nobody seemed quite sure what to do with the information, especially since it was the first time any of them had heard it beforehand. Foggy glanced at him confused, whilst Matt’s attention strayed. At first he considered the extra heartbeat he caught the sound of in Fisk’s penthouse, before his ears tuned to noises beyond the walls of the interview room.

Sharp whispers were muffled by the various walls between Matt and the sources, but his focus shifted towards them nonetheless. He tilted his head, filtering out the hundreds of sounds that permeated through the air like a cocktail of the senses.

Tuning past the ticking clocks and raspy breathing and crashing waves, his focus fixated itself on distant voices. He could hear fragmented and disjointed conversations dancing in disorientating patterns, whilst a faint and incessant ticking undercut their words. “Arrange,” “separate,” and “plant” were just a few floating words that caught his attention, but he couldn’t help but focus on that ticking.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Whatever it was, it was unnatural to the prison. He had heard the sounds of the prison for long enough in his life to know that these sounds were unfamiliar in their entirety. Knowing how unusual the sounds were, Matt furrowed his brow. Rapidly, his mind connected dots, forming an understanding that the words and voices weren’t simple discussion – but a plan. A plot. An attack.

Matt launched himself to his feet without any warning, drawing the room to swivel their heads around and stare at him puzzled. His blinking was sparce and his attention lied elsewhere.

“Matt?” Foggy broke the silence that resonated between them, as his eyes glanced to Matt with resonating worry in his eyes. The façade of confidence was beginning to slip as he stared at peculiar actions of the blind man.

Pushing back his chair, Matt reached back for his cane. “Excuse me for a moment.” He muttered, focusing more on the tapping sounds of his cane as he scraped it against the floor in search of the exit.

“Is something wrong?” Foggy asked, his eyes now fixated on Matt. Observing him like a hawk, Foggy felt his heart racing in fear – a sound that Matt heard all too quickly.

“I need to confirm something.” Matt replied hesitantly, leaving no room for argument as he shot towards the door. Speed picked up in his stride, before being drawn to another halt by the voice of Fisk.

“Mr Murdock.” The low voice of Fisk rumbled, whilst his brow raised. “Do not doubt me when I say, I have done nothing.” Although the statement seemed defensive, and almost framed himself as a guilt-ridden party, Matt could hear the sincerity in his voice and the truth in the steady beating of his heart. Matt raised his eyebrow, surprised by the reveal. Truth be told, he expected Fisk to be the culprit of anything happening in New York, but it almost seemed he had just provided a reason to trust him.

Matt didn’t respond, and instead swerved back towards the door and yanked it open. His head cocked towards the two guards, who glared at him confused. He smiled at both, before explaining he needed the restroom – a lie that neither detected.

Instead, as he was escorted to the toilet, his ears tuned to the incessant noise.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

“Are we set?” One voice spoke with urgent panic.

“Yes.” Another replied, seemingly across some form of radio as it responded from across the building.

“Are you certain? Timing needs to be perfect.”

“I said yes. It’s ready – just waiting for the signal.”

Signal meant precision. It suggested orchestration and specific planning. An attack set in motion by coordination set elsewhere. Matt listened carefully to other sounds, but the chaos of a prison meant that he lost track of the sounds on his path to the restroom.

Even as he approached the restroom, he tuned back in for the various sources of ticking. He was certain they weren’t clocks nor machinery, but something else. An engineered rhythm or a dangerous design.

“Right here.” One of the guards grunted and gestured towards the restroom door, knocking it with his knuckles to indicate for Matt. Matt smile politely and thanked the man, not wanting to make it obvious that he didn’t need the sound – the stench before him and the creaking hinges of the restroom door guided him enough.

Promptly hurrying inside, Matt listened carefully.

“Any clue where we ought to meet after?”

“Boss said City Hall. But I reckon plans’ll change if the bridge goes down.”

“He’s going for the bridge too?” The crackle of the radio melded with the sound of the ticking, “Anything else.”

“You’ll just have to wait and see.”

Listening to the voices, Matt leant against the sink tightly. His knuckles whitened as he focused on the voices, tyring to find their sources – tyring to pinpoint the location in the chaotic labyrinth of the ward.

*

Foggy adjusted his tie nervously. “What was that all about?” He asked, taking a chance for air.

“It appears, even after all of this time, Mr Murdock can’t help but play hero.” Fisk smiled grimly. “But whatever it was, I suspect we will find out soon enough.”

Luke cracked his knuckles and leant forward, his eyes narrowing on Fisk. “You better not be planning something.” The rattling chains of his restraints jangled and jittered, and his eyes focused on Fisk.

“I assure you, Mr Cage, I have no hand in anything. I came here to listen to you and your story, so please… continue.” Fisk’s face kept the smile plastered across his face. “You were saying, Mr Stryker had become invisible.”

*New Orleans – 2^nd February 10.21 AM (EST)*

Easing the door shut behind her, Jessica listened as the soft click of the latch was swallowed by the creaking hum of the old dingy hotel corridor. With a lingering scent of mildew and the sterile tang of cleaning products burning through the air, the corridor had no reason for Jessica to dwell any longer. She glanced passed the peeling wallpaper and the rustic fixtures and dim flicking lightbulbs above. The aging wooden floorboards creaked beneath the threadbare carpet, as Jessica’s leather boots crept across them. Hung around her side was a brown satchel, whilst a grey scarf was draped around her neck.

She paused once she reached the staircase, glancing back to the room where her sister slept peacefully. Racing in her mind was a fear – a fear that she was making the wrong decision in the strategy she had concocted on her own…

*Quinjet #058, somewhere above Cleveland – 2^nd February 10.37 AM (EST)*

Filling the cabin of the Quinjet was the steady and constant hum of the engines. It resonated as a backdrop, calming in it’s own right and a faint distraction to a scent of fuel that lingered with the smell of sleek metal.

“Intel suggests HYDRA is positioning itself across multiple key locations in New York City.” Coulson’s voice was still audible over the jet thrusters of the Quinjet, which shot it through the airspace undetected. His eyes glanced around towards the various agents he’d pulled into this mission, knowing full well he wanted (and needed) the very best at his side. The agents of SHIELD had heard the briefing all before, but as they approached the city of New York, he thought it best to re-establish the expectations. He reasserted the importance of their journey and the expectations of what they would find.

At his side, Rosalind fed him the information, as she sat besides Fitz who hastily utilised a laptop that jiggled against his legs. “Nothing indicates that this is related to Kilgrave or the creature from the planet of death – but we think this is a planned terror operation by Ward.”

May leant forward, and glanced around the room with narrowed and confused eyes. Bristling in her mind were attempts to make sense of the situation. “And you’re sure Ward’s involved? A terror attack in New York doesn’t sound like his style.” She remarked suspiciously, feeling the engines rumble beneath her as she spoke. Her eyes glanced around the Quinjet, noticing the agreement that was shared in each of the agents’ eyes. They had all known Ward and his tactics, which this appeared to resemble nothing of.

“No, it doesn’t. But with the situation with Kilgrave and Ward and…” He hesitated to say Hunter’s name, and so for a moment it sat on the edge of his tongue and in the mind’s of everybody else. His eyes shot towards Bobbi, whose attention was transfixed on a wedding photograph clasped in her hand. “It’s best we don’t wait to uncover why they’re doing whatever it is that they’re planning.”

Rosalind interjected the following silence, still stifled by the unmentioned name of Hunter. “We intercepted chatter around three targets – The old Avengers Tower, Manhattan Bridge, and Central Park.” She spoke calmly, her red lipstick shimmering under the natural daylight that seeped through the cockpit of the Quinjet.

“Central Park?” Mack exclaimed, confused as he swivelled his head around from the pilot’s seat. His voice rumbled with a depth that matched the engines, whilst his indented brow expressed his confusion. “That’s a logistical nightmare. Packed with civilians, wide open. What’s Ward playing at?”

Shrugging his shoulders, Coulson glanced back towards the cockpit, catching sight of Daisy and Mack staring at him in anticipation. “No clue, but that’s what we’re here to find out.

“And you’re positive this isn’t Inhuman-related?” Her voice pressed with urgency, whilst carrying a tone of defensiveness. She glanced across from the co-pilot’s seat with cross arms and an anxious expression. “Because with that creature and Ward and Kilgrave, I need to know that my people are safe too.”

Exchanged between Rosalind and Coulson was a careful glance, acting as a brief and unspoken communication. “No indications so far – but we’ll keep our eyes open.”

Across the cabin, Bobbi’s voice muttered something quietly. Her eyes glared down at the scrunched and worn photograph in her hand, with her eyes focused on the face of Hunter – a moment where he was captured with pride and love and honour and beauty. She smiled for a moment, feeling the faint light of happiness fade, before she spoke again. “I don’t care what HYDRA is planning. As long as we find Ward, and then Kilgrave… and then… that creature. And we end this – that’s all I need.”

“We’ll make him pay alright.” Mack grumbled, flicking his eyes towards her before returning to the controls at hand. His voice was grim and quiet, with the knowledge that Bobbi’s mind was sense of justice was tainted by justifiable rage.

“We’re not here for revenge.” Coulson snapped firmly, his head swivelling around to catch sight of Bobbi and Mack and Daisy. “Our priority is stopping these attacks and minimizing casualties.” He stared across towards Bobbi, watching as her eyes remained anchored to Hunter’s photograph. He shared her grief, trapped with the image of Hunter’s possessed corpse roaming the Zephyr’s laboratory resonating in his mind.

Simmons broke the tension that tethered Coulson’s glare upon Bobbi. “We’ve ruled out anything related to the portal, so it doesn’t appear to be cult activity.”

“Good.” Coulson spoke, distracting himself from the image held in his mind. “Happy’s cleared us for landing access at the Avenger’s tower.” Hesitation tempered his voice, before he quickly added, “Well, confirmed you entry, he doesn’t exactly know I’m even alive”

A faint flicker of a smirk shot across Mack’s face, although it faded as quickly as it had appeared.

“So, we’ve got a place to land. That’s something at least.” Daisy remarked, her tone still holding the same scepticism that was held throughout the cabin. “Let’s just hope this isn’t another wild goose chase.”

“Whatever Ward’s planning, we’re going to stop it. HYDRA won’t get to win this time.” Coulson retorted firmly, trying to combat the defeat they had suffered last time.

*UNDISCLOSED HYDRA BASE – 2^nd February 8.09 am (EST)*

Cold steel walls were caught beneath the strong white glare of fluorescent lights, which buzzed and hummed quietly and incessantly. Permeating through it’s blank and heartless walls was a sterile scent that tainted the thick metallic air. Barely anything stirred within it’s confines, besides whirring of elevators and confound prisons trapping various HYDRA assets.

Kilgrave was escorted through, immediately hit by the white glare and wincing like a vampire spotting sunlight cascade across the horizon. He snarled at first, squinting his eyes to protect them from the immediate sharpness of the light. Ignoring the blinding fluorescence, he pursued his goal – the main prisoner that had been bound within the underground confines.

Chained to a pillar, staring at a screen which displayed the military history of Earth, was a living corpse. Polished steel looped around his bare arms and legs, rattling with each movement and dangling from the central pillar. Embodying the cadaver of Lance Hunter was an alien parasite that had once been a terrifying force in it’s own right. It had been worshipped and fed sacrifices, and been feared for centuries by it’s own cult. Yet, now it was hunched over in submission – weak in human form. It’s eyes were dull and exhausted, and it’s mind lacking control of itself. It was sedated by a voice simmering in it’s mind – Kilgrave’s voice, raw and powerful.

As Kilgrave wandered into the room, he ensured to keep himself softly trodden. The leather of his polished black shoes slapped against the shiny metallic floor, echoing throughout the room. Under the bright white light, his purple suit shimmered faintly, giving the particular detail to the purple shades. Meanwhile, written across his face was a menacing tranquillity, enjoying the sight of the imprisoned creature – fascinated like a predator studying it’s prey, with a curl to the corner of his lips.

“Why…” Hunter’s voice spoke, but the soul and tone behind it belonged to something different. Something with more cruelty and evil and harshness. Kilgrave cocked his head to the side in curiosity, wondering where the creature’s question would be taken. “Why do they all sound so different?” He wondered, his sickly eyes staring at Kilgrave’s with an absence behind them. Kilgrave stared confused at first, leaving another silence to simmer between them. “This body… and you, and Jemma… they all sound the same. But the others, they sound different… Why?”

Kilgrave scoffed at the observation, beginning to pace. “We’re in America – everybody sounds like that.” He remarked, circling the carcass like a vulture, sizing up it’s prize. Glistening in his eyes was a cruel humour, considering how absurd the parasite’s observation was.

“Then why…” His raspy voice continued, as the alien creature played the vocal cords of the dead man’s body. Unnaturally dropping it’s head, the creatures eyes glared at Kilgrave, his sight burning deep into Kilgrave. “Why does your voice sound so different? It is not the accent… nor the rhythm. It’s the way your words feel…” Tilting it’s head slightly further to let it’s vacant gaze fall upon Kilgrave, the corpse moved lifelessly. Hunter’s eyes observed Kilgrave, trying to desperately find an answer to the question that burned inside it’s mind. “Your voice… it commands. Their voices… beg.”

Kilgrave halted. His pacing stopped and, for a moment, his smug demeanour faltered as his eyes narrowed and his smile glistened. Curiosity sharpened his features, as he stared down and leaned forward. “And what about your voice?” His hands, coarse to the touch, dropped into the pockets of his tailored purple suit, whilst his grin was tugged to the furthest corners of his face. He stared at Hunter’s face. “What is it that you do?”

 Clanking steel chains clattered and groaned against the questioning, as the creature straightened it’s posture. The frail corpse fought against something, with a strength in it’s eyes bearing the semblance of a god trying to break free. A god attempting to re-discover it’s power. Yet, it failed. Metallic hains bound it to it’s place, trapping within the unknown prison.

“I take.” Said the creature simply, with dull glinting eyes and an echo of grandeur ringing from a former life. “I unite what is fractured. I consume the weak. Inhumans… we will reunite.” The creature’s struggle to form words didn’t prevent it entirely, as it sought to formulate it’s ideas that resonated in it’s mind. The creature was hellbent on world domination, returning to the point of Godhood that it believed itself to be intended for. Pride burned in his eyes, like a sin dancing in hell.

“Not yet.” Kilgrave replied quietly and sternly, his words tipped with a poison. “You take – I command. Do you see the difference?” A short, sharp and dismissive laughter burst from his mouth as he spread his arms out theatrically and grinned down towards the eyes of the corpse.

A feral grimace spread across the face of Hunter, as the weak creature struggled for it’s words. “You command mortals.” It spoke with some grandeur, exhausted in finding the words as it’s lips curled. “They are weak creatures that obey in fear… I am more. I am eternal. I–”

“You’re a relic. You’re not a god. You’re a parasite, clinging onto the scraps of a corpse. Don’t look down upon me, because without me, you are nothing.” Kilgrave interrupted, his voice cutting through the creature’s tirade like a serrated knife. Mirroring the burning fury in his eyes, Kilgrave stepped closer and leaned forward, looming over the chained figure. He recalled the man who once inhabited that body – the man he’d met on only one occasion.

Before him, the creature growled a guttural sound, which rumbled throughout his prison. Straining against the metallic chains led to their rattling, but neither of these sounds nor sights made Kilgrave flinch. Instead, he stood firm, unshaken, with only his smirk deepening as he watched the futility of an ancient creature. “Stop it.” Kilgrave commanded as though he was talking to a trained animal.

Despite the instincts of the creature telling him otherwise, Hunter’s body halted it’s struggle against the chains and stared up to Kilgrave. It’s wide and wild and feral eyes either waited for the next command or searched for a reason as to how Kilgrave managed to control it’s actions so masterfully.

“When I am free… which will be soon… you will be my first victim.” The creature snarled, bearing it’s gritting teeth towards the man draped in purple.

“Oh, I’m sure you’d kill me the moment I slip. But we both know that’s not happening anytime soon, because your weak and feeble human form is mine to control.” Kilgrave smirked, a sinister twinge to it. “But soon enough, you’ll have plenty of Inhumans to control.”

“Everything is in place then?” Asked the creature, with a sadistic curiosity. Even before he had arrived, the plans had been made. When the corpse of Lance Hunter was dragged down into the sleek and blank chamber, he was merely the final piece to a plotted puzzle. And whilst he vowed to slaughter Kilgrave the moment he had freedom, he found some morbid joy in his role of Kilgrave’s plot.

“The big broadcast is set for half-past eleven, so we best get you ready.” Kilgrave cocked his head with some curiosity, sizing up Hunter’s body and imagining it draped in purple suit akin to his own. A satisfied smile spread across his face as he considered it – confirming it in his mind. “Purple should suit you.”

*Fisk’s Penthouse – 2^nd February 10.54 AM (EST)*

Stood awkwardly by a glistening grand piano, Peter shifted his weight from one foot to another, trying to determine what the best course of action to take was. His ears listened to the faint hum of jazz that carried itself through the vast white space of polished marble and gleaming glass, floating across the cold breeze of the luxurious penthouse. His eyes hesitated to glance towards the plush velvet sofa, since Vanessa was sprawled across it, her attention fixed on words that littered a book clasped in her hand.

Resting the book on her lap, she glanced across towards Peter with a calm smile, gentle and mildly amused. “You don’t have to hover, you know. You can sit.” She tilted her head and observed Peter, as he stammered an apology in response and perched on the edge of the sofa. Clinging to the edge, Peter looked like a spring ready to snap, prepared to launch himself across the room in the face of an emergency. Amused by the sight, Vanessa shut her book and set it aside, keeping her gentle smile plastered across her face. “Wilson speaks highly of you. He tells me you are eager and ambitious and outspoken.” Her polite tone was undercut but an element of curiosity and suspicion, wanting to unearth more about the teenager.

“Mr Fisk has been really generous.” Peter replied, carefully choosing his words. Now the creeping fact that he was using his internship to feed information to a masked vigilante began to infect his mind, poisoning his confidence as he noticed the words he was uttering were merely lies. “It’s interesting to see… well, to learn about life like his. It’s not every day you get to see how someone like him run things.” Peter began to tremble nervously, uncertain if the gaze of a beautiful woman was throwing him off, or the knowledge that he was clearly lying through his teeth.

Vanessa smile, her face curved by a faint growth in her curiosity. “Somebody like him?” Her question, slightly poised by a desire to unearth the truth, panicked Peter as he tried to find the words.

“I mean– I mean somebody so… successful. And busy. You know, with the, uh, anti-vigilante project.”

“Yes, I suppose he always finds a way to keep himself occupied, doesn’t he?” She leaned back against the sofa with a smile that didn’t falter. Between the two, a silence hung, but the curiosity of Vanessa was almost deafening. Her eyes investigated Peter, staring him up and down, trying to make sense of him. “And what about you, Peter? What keeps you occupied when you’re not here?” She asked, now trying to dig deeper into his life.

Being a hero was the first answer that came to mind. His mind flashed with the image of donning the suit of spiderman and crafting web-fluid, and swinging through Queens in small-ditch efforts to help the people of his neighbourhood. Then he considered the impossibility of admitting that, and quickly searched for an answer.

“Uh, school, mostly. And photography. My best friend Ned is always – you know… so it’s… well trying to do everything at once. It’s a balance.” He replied, flustered as he felt Vanessa’s eyes dig deeper into him.

“Balance is important.” She nodded, studying him. “Though I imagine working for Wilson must disrupt that balance.”

“It’s worth it.” Peter responded, nervously realising how eager he sounded in his prompt response. “I mean, the experience is worth it. He’s… he’s inspiring.” The word was the first that came to mind, and instantly he regretted it, as Vanessa tilted her head once again and inspected his face.

“Inspiring? That’s an interesting choice.”

Peter swallowed, forcing a smile. “He’s just… someone who has built a lot from nothing. Who is trying to make a difference. It’s very admirable.”

Vanessa reached for a glass of water and gulped it down, soothing her throat as she thought. “Sometimes I wonder if the world understands the sacrifices he has made.” Peter nodded his head uncomfortably. “How much of Wilson’s work do you understand?”

“I, uh,” He sought to explain himself quickly. Grasping at everything he was supposed to have seen, and ridding of everything he shouldn’t have known. “I know that it’s mostly philanthropy. Working with good causes, supporting businesses.”

“Philanthropy.” She muttered, grinning to herself. “I like that word.” Vanessa pulled herself to her feet, and wandered towards the window. Her gaze drifted across the cityscape with some admiration of it’s vast beauty. “Philanthropy is such a delicate balance, Peter. It’s not just about giving – it’s about understanding. Knowing where to place your efforts – where to make the greatest impact. Wilson has a gift for that. He sees the bigger picture. And he sees potential in you, which is no small compliment.”

Peter forced a smile as glanced across from the edge of the sofa. He leapt to his feet and approached her, smiling at her as he did so. “I’m very lucky. I know th-” His confession was abruptly interrupted. As the clock struck 11.02, he felt a searing instinctual alarm send a jolt of adrenaline through his entire body. Hairs stood on edge as he had on the sofa, whilst his breathing hitched. 

Vanessa glanced back to the cityscape, as a sea of smoke, thin and grey, began to seep through the subway grates. It curled through the air, dancing along the wind. The streets filled with a cacophony of raging car horns and screaming civilians, screeching buses. Sirens began to blare and people called for help, with Peter’s eyes drawing towards a sea of people running from the slithering smoke that pulled up through the subway grates.

“Something’s happening…” Peter muttered, swivelling back towards the penthouse doors and racing towards it. “I- I have to- I have to go!” He called out, ignoring Vanessa’s series of questions.

Chapter Text

In those first few minutes past eleven, the city of New York is thrust into chaos. Across the subway and the streets, the mysterious mist infected and corrupted. It’s cause remaining unknown. As I observe the unfolding terror, I feel the guilt of my observation. But I know, I cannot interfere…

Even in the changes divert this universe further off track…

***

Hit by a grazing sunlight that swept across the street, Officer Brett Mahoney squinted his eyes as emerged from the stairwell. Behind him, the subway stirred with its morning roaring, feeling the weight of the aftermath of rush hour, with stifled air and roaring trains that screeched along train tracks. In front of him was the burst of city life, with car horns and chatter of pedestrians and bustling footsteps and construction from the towering cranes. His eyes glanced towards the grates and manholes, which seeped with steam and smoke from the subway beneath. He watched yellow taxis tumble past and glanced in surprise to not see Foggy Nelson standing with a paper bag.

Yet, his attention was quickly drawn by a metallic clang that echoed from behind him. Swivelling around, he stared at the entrance of the subway and frowned in confusion as he caught sight of the metallic shutters sealing the stairwell shut. With another final thud as he watched, the subway was sealed completely, with the lights of the stairwell flickering into darkness. His ears caught the sound of disruption within the station, as puzzled civilians questioned what was going on, whilst others screamed or banged against the shutters.

“What the–?” Brett muttered to himself as he raced down the stairwell, staring at the graffiti that lined the metal shutters. Reaching for the radio strapped to his shoulder, he thrusted it against his mouth and clicked it to a static crackle. “Dispatch – this is Mahoney. Fifty-Second and Broadway, the Subway shutters have just closed on their own. Any word on what’s going on down there?” The static crackled again, acting as the only response that he was given. His thumbling finger pressed down the button again, as he sought to find the handle to undo the shutters. “Dispatch, do you copy? Is there an issue with the subway system?”

A hiss of dead crackling air replied again. Nobody responded.

Brett was left with a silent anticipation of a response, puzzling him as he raced back up towards the top of the stairwell. His eyes swung around, hoping to catch sight of another officer to re-ask his question, but he couldn’t see anybody of relevance. Just civilians, each minding their businesses.

Tightening his grip on his radio, Brett felt an unease creep against his spine. He returned back to the shutters, finding a small handle that he needed a key to begin twisting. With a frustrated frown, Brett reached again for the button on his radio. “Does anybody copy? I need an answer on whether there is a problem with the subway.”

Before Brett could try to heave the shutter doors open once again, his nose caught a foul smell from inside. Instinctively he grimaced and backed up along the stairwell, before he was brought to a halt. Behind the smell was a sea of crying voices inside the shutters, the banging died and a hissing followed, whilst a dark mist began to seep through the gaps of the shutters.

Whatever seeped through the sealed shutters wasn’t exactly smoke. It swirled and danced, fading in the sunlight as it rose upwards. It carried a foul smell, and there was almost a small snap in Brett’s mind as it approached him. Despite his efforts to instinctively waft it away, he couldn’t help but feel some drawing towards it.

Suddenly, his radio came to life with frantic voices. “...all units, possible chemical release… subways locked down… evacuate civilians…” A voice raged in panic over the radio.

Snapping Brett’s attention elsewhere was the violent coughing of a man, who stood over a metal grate. He wheezed and coughed, almost sounding as though his lungs would give way and flop against the ground. Brett raced towards him, pulling him away from the metal grate which now released spurts of mist. The gaseous form danced into the air, catching the haze of heat and sunlight as it did so.

“Sir, are you okay?” Brett asked, resting his hands on the man’s shoulders and trying to find some eye contact. He observed the elderly man’s wrinkling skin and worn eyes. The strands of white wiry hair that seeped down from his head and bounced with each heavy cough. Brett reached for his radio once again in the absence of a response, trying to find an opportunity to contact dispatch in the chaos of, what seemed, to be a sea of a hundred desperate pleas.

“Dispatch, Officer Mahoney here, I need an ambulance here at Fifty-Second and Broadway.” His eyes darted around, as other people fell into a similar fit of agonised coughing and wheezing. “Multiple casualties – some kind of chemical release in the subway.”

“Received. All services are busy at the moment, the best we can do here is advise you evacuate the area.”

“What about these lo–” Brett paused, his voice came to a halt. The man collapsed in his arms against the ground, which threw his words off at first, but ultimately his silence was caused by the sight of a woman freezing in her place. She stood, paralysed for a moment, and under Brett’s gaze he watched as the body of the woman was cocooned in a crumbling brown rock. He watched, confused and terrified as her features were engulfed and covered, her body covered in a hard-shell sediment. “Chemical substance appears toxic – I’m watch a woman being engulfed by rock–” Once again, Brett’s voice was cut off, as the rock began to crack, crumble and peel from her skin. Her eyes glistened under the sunlight, having stared at nothingness for a moment. “Scratch that, the rock crumbled away.”

“Officer Mahoney, could you be more specific? What do you mean she was engulfed?” Asked the voice of dispatch.

“No clue. She just turned into rock, and then it fell off her.” Brett stated, still clutching onto the elderly man who regained himself. Realising the pressing matters elsewhere, the elderly man stumbled to his feet, thanked Mahoney, and hurried out of sight of any metal grates. Brett, puzzled by the sight of the woman, barely gave the elderly man any attention, simply seizing the opportunity to hurry towards the woman.

As he reached her, she froze. Glaring absently as though in a trance, she didn’t seem phased by the cocoon state she had just emerged from. In fact, she didn’t seem phased by anything. Her eyes were looked as though they were a doll’s, glassy and glazed over, barely able to comprehend the world around her. Even Brett’s attempts to talk to her were ignored, although his voice promptly faltered at the sight of a dull glow pulsating through her veins. He paused, his voice stuttering, as he stared at the puzzling image.

Within seconds of trying to communicate with the woman, whose trance-like state remained unwavering, Brett watched as she turned around and began to walk. The pulsating turned a hue of blue, and she continued forward without any care of obstacles in her way.

“Ma’am!” Brett shouted, trying still to get past the glassy eyes of her trance. However, her attempts failed completely.

Watching as the woman wandered off, Brett paused. His eyes glanced around, watching the violent coughing spurring from the inhalation of the strange mist that seeped from the grates.

*

Frank Castle smiled softly at his daughter as she rested against his arm, clutching onto a stuffed rabbit whose once-white fur had dulled with the years of love and wear and tear. Brushing a strand of dark hair from her eyes, Frank felt a moment of peace and tranquillity pass over him. Life was calm, a distraction from the horrors of war that he had seen not too long ago.

Across the train carriage were his wife and son, who were busy playing a game of Eye-Spy under the screeching of metal along the tracks. They resisted the trembling of the carriage as it rumbled along, whilst Frank embraced the comfort of the screeching sounds. To him, the horrible shriek of metal wheels and metal tracks was a reminder of life outside of the warzone.

“I spy…” Maria announced, her eyes darting around the carriage for a moment, eagerly looking for the next subject to spy. “I spy with my little eye, something… red!” She announced with a playful grin written across her face. Frank watched, his eyes darting between Maria and Frank Jr.

“Uh…” Frank Jr. stuttered for a moment, his eyes darting around the carriage for the colour red. He looked at a man’s hoodie, a bunch of roses, some posters – before ultimately spotting the illuminated letters above the train doors. “Exit sign!” He exclaimed, gleaming as Maria clapped her hands. His eyes widened with pride.

“Got it! You’re getting too good at this, Frankie!”

Frank chuckled, patting his daughter’s shoulder and catching his wife’s gaze. “Guess you’ll have to step up your game – Kid’s like his old man, got an eagle eye.”

Maria glanced across, bearing a childish smile that she shared with her son. “Oh, don’t you worry. I’ve got plenty of tricks left.” She remarked, her eyes glancing back around for another sight. As she searched, her eyes spotted Lisa beginning to doze off and she nodded to Frank to warn him.

Frank shifted slightly, careful not to disturb his sleeping daughter, resting his hand on her head to keep her nearby. She slowed breathing soothed him, reminding him again of the tranquillity that he’d fought to protect. As his eyes glanced around, he caught sight of the various passengers. An elderly man reading a folded newspaper, a pair of college students sharing a pair of earphones, a young woman furiously typing on her phone, a young man clutching onto a batch of roses and a man stood staring at his reflection with a bag strapped to his back. Everyone was caught in their own little worlds.

And for once, Frank felt attached to them all. He was part of the world, not separated across the world in a hail of gunfire.

As the train slowed in its approach to the next station, Frank caught the sight of the platform lights through the grimy marked windows. He caught sight of the patient passengers and the impatient ones, the watched their eager faces crowding the platforms, whilst others seemed to express a slight panic in a flight up the staircase.

“What the hell?” Somebody asked aloud, from across the carriage as the train jolted to a sudden stop. It halted, seemingly in the wrong place, and refused to open its doors. There was no shuffle of passengers exchanging places – but a silence and stillness that felt uncomfortable.

Frank glanced around confused for a moment, with a prickling of his skin as he felt his military instincts kick in. Something unnatural had happened, indicated further by a crackling of static from the PA. Frank felt his grip tighten against the armrest, with his eyes scanning the carriage. He watched as an elderly man glanced up unphased, the college kids frantically checking their watches, the woman still typing away, the man with roses glancing up cautiously. Before his eyes fell upon the man staring at his reflection, who now squatted on the floor and rooted through his bag.

“Frank…” Maria’s worried voice reached across the carriage, before her eyes locked with her husbands.

Frank’s voice steadily replied, “It’s okay, probably just a technical issue. Stay here.” He instructed, gently shifting his daughter from his arm whilst her eyes fluttered open. She mumbled something indistinct and unintelligible, which Frank merely replied to with a reassuring smile and a soft, “Just sit tight, sweetheart.” He towered over her, and patted her head, before beginning to approach the squatting rucksack rummager.

Crouching besides the man, he spotted that he was young – probably about seventeen or eighteen. He had a poorly shaven face and a horrid outbreak of acne. His eyes were glassy, but his hands trembled as he finally retrieved a small cloth which concealed something thin and long.

Frank’s breathing hitched, before he took hold of the boy’s forearm. The boy glanced upwards, greyish-blue eyes staring back to him with a new lighting of fear.

“Everything okay, bud?” Frank asked, feeling his instincts rage against him. Something was clearly wrong – something clearly warned him against the situation.

“I can’t…” The boy quietly whispered, his voice cracking as though the words themselves were forced from his quivering lips. He twisted around his arm and, with as much force as his restrained wrist could apply, threw the cloth down. His hurling of the object was a desperate throw, which was followed by a shattering of shards, like a broken glass.

As the fabric unfurled, Frank watched a strange grey mist billowing from dark blue shards of a fractured crystal. He watched as the mist rose in a thick cloud, dragged by the breeze as though it searched for somebody – anybody.

“Back! Get back!”  Frank barked, leaping to his feet and taking hold of his daughter. He yanked a hem of her coat over her face and pressed it against her mouth and nose, beginning to stumble backwards. His own arm came up to shield his face, feeling his military tactics beginning to reinsert themselves.

The mist began to spread in a rapid fashion, engulfing the elderly man sitting by, who had spent the last few seconds complaining about the holdup of the train. A harsh guttural cough relentlessly forced its way from his throat, sharp as it clawed against him. Across his face was a contortion of pain, as his throat felt dry and pained and his eyes widened in terror.

“Sir? Are you okay?” One of the college students asked, leaning forward to help, before noticing the man’s skin had begun to cocoon itself in a strange brown rock. Before the student could react to the terrifying sight, the mist ran along his arm and he too was frozen paralysed.

“Cover your mouths!” Frank demanded, “Get away from the smoke!” He ordered, racing towards the back of the carriage as he seized his daughter. He glanced back to his wife, who’s terrified eyes glanced back towards him. “Move! Now!” He commanded his wife, in such that provoked pure terror to dart across her face.

Maria complied. She seized her son and raced along the carriage, holding her scarf around his mouth to protect him, even though it seemed that the mere contact of mist against the skin was dangerous. She followed Frank, who pushed toward the connecting doors and left behind the chaos of the carriage, which had erupted with screams and cries of confusion and coughing and collapsing bodies.

Hitting the release button of the door, Frank continued into the next carriage.

Any relief he felt was short-lived.

His eyes watched as the same grey mist crept along this carriage too, swirling along the ceiling and walls. Across the carriage, his eyes fell upon a woman whose body was encased in a brittle stone-like cocoon,, whilst another crumbled to ash and dust and scraps of clothing.

“Frank!” Cried Maria, “What do we do?” Frank shielded his daughters eyes, before swivelling around towards the window. He wrapped his jacket back around Lisa, before handing her back to Maria. He smiled faintly at them, although determination still crossed his face.

Leaping forward, Frank yanked at the emergency release, feeling as the latch gave way and passed a cold blast of cool air through the carriage. The window swung open and Frank leant down and grabbed his daughter.

“Out the window!” He ordered once again.

“Frank, we can’t–” Maria yelled, her voice cut off as she saw the mist closing in. Her time for arguments were seized up and thrust into the dancing smoke. She helped Lisa slide through the narrow ledge first, before Frank Jr. was guided through the window carefully. Maria followed, assisted by Frank, who proceeded to grab the edge of the window and readied to hoist himself out.

As he did so, his eyes lingered, catching sight of the mist which shot down the carriage quickly. As it brushed against the bare skin, which his jacket had just been covering, he felt a cold unnatural sensation drag the hairs on his forearm to a stand. Soldiers lined his skin, readied to combat the cold. His breathing faltered and he stared at his fingers, feeling a a rough and coarse texture run along his palm. The mist was an infection, consuming his flesh.

Maria watched in horror, as her husband muttered something incoherent with a strained struggling voice. Frank’s body was consumed by the mist, and then the stone, and he had frozen, paralysed.

Beneath the sediment that cocooned his face, he took his final moments to think about his family. Fleeting memories rose through his mind, an image of Lisa’s sleepy smile and Frank Jr.’s pride of winning Eye-spy… and Maria’s laugh.

Within moments, darkness consumed him, and the remnants of Frank Castle collapsed into dust.

*

“Daddy!” Lisa screamed, tears streaking her whimpering cheeks. She clasped onto her mother’s hand, fixated on the window.

“We have to go,” Maria took them both by the hand as her eyes spotted the mist beginning to dissipate. Her voice was hoarse and brought to a cry. “We have to keep moving, just like daddy said.”

Chapter Text

The city of New York, the monument of ambition and struggle, teeters on the edge of chaos. The streets are choked with mist as the first act of a saga unknown to many. The death of Frank Castle was one occurrence, but not the only. For the spreading mist, only posed the first threat.

Elsewhere, another threat was detected. The valiant hero of Hell’s Kitchen, a masked vigilante who had endured a life of exposure and trauma, fought to preserve order and fight for safety. Matthew Murdock sought to investigate the obscure ticking noise of Rykers Island, but in the time of need he vanished.

***

Foggy’s phone rang with urgency, as Karen stared down at the street from the window in her office. She watched as the dark mist seeped through the grates and shutters and rose through the streets. Ambulances and police cars shot across streets, swerving out of the way of cars evacuating in terror. She could hear screams and terrified chatter, all noises rising with the dark mist to form a dark conglomerate of panic over the city.

Karen clasped her phone beside her ear, pacing back and forth across the office. Flitting between the offices of Matt and Foggy, she clung onto some hope that they were safe. After all, there weren’t any subway stations near Ryker’s Island. Ringing in the background was her laptop, WHIH news playing the emergency coverage of what was happening across the city of New York. Impressively, they had swept to covering the incident with four minutes – plastering the information that was needed everywhere.

“Karen, we’re in the middle of an interv–” Finally, Foggy answered, irritation escaping from his voice as he spoke.

With a heavily relieved sigh, Karen promptly interjected. “Oh, thank god, you’re alive.” She cried, racing to her seat in an effort to find some comfort for a moment. Foggy’s voice resonated in her ears, though she took no notice of the actual words that he uttered. Instead, his voice was temporarily white noise as she found some comfort to settle herself and the terror that had struck her.

“Why have I got – like seven – missed calls from you?”

“You mean, you don’t know?” Karen responded quickly, her question unexpectedly answered by the voice of somebody else faintly through the speaker.

“Apologies, Mr Fisk and Mr Nelson. We need to return Luke to his cell. You’ll be escorted out by–” Although undoubtedly the voice of an officer, it was clear he was shaken. There was some reservation and terror, something struck by the sudden randomness of the city attack that had stirred some uncertainty in the officer.

“I haven’t finished my conversation with Mr Cage–” Replied Fisk, whose powerful voice was brutish in its manor, as it march its way through the room and across the phone call, storming authority and seizing a brief stint of silence.

“The city’s been put in a state of emergency. We’re evacuating all visitors for their safety.” Replied the officer nervously, still unsure how to deal with the situation. There was a swarm of noises which followed, most of which Karen couldn’t quite make sense of without bearing witness to it. There was scraping of metal and heavy footsteps at the most she could comprehend, but nothing else seemed to make sense – besides the sound of Fisk’s voice being somewhere different and new.

“In that case, I want Mr Cage released immediately.” Fisk replied with a demeanour that almost went unquestioned. The officer, clearly fresh to the force and off of Fisk’s payroll sputtered anxiously. The terror of the assault was flushed out by an intimidation and confusion erupted by the man before him.

“Mr Fisk, they can’t just–” Foggy was interrupted once again, now by Luke, who’s rattling chains of handcuffs found themselves reaching Karen through the call.

“I’m staying right here.” He insisted, with a nod that Karen couldn’t catch on the other end of the phone.

“Foggy – the city’s been attacked by some kind of… mist. And it’s making some people just… walk away. It’s putting people in cocoons too? You need to get to safety.” Karen explained hastily, half of her attention divided between the phone call besides her ear and the bold declarative piece of ‘BREAKING NEWS’ that stretched across the screen. Even as she spoke, she could hear that her voice joined a battle of others, all seeking dominance.

*

“Fisk, we need to leave.” Foggy spoke with certainty and caution, moving towards Fisk with his phone clutched in his hand. “There’s been an attack on the city – Where’s Matt?” Foggy, trying his best to seize control of the frenzy of voices clashing in the room, now swivelled around to the officer. His face, something Karen could only imagine, was flustered with a sense of panic, as his hair swung from his head.

“We checked Mr Murdock out just a moment ago, sir.”

“Right. No, that makes sense.”

“Yes. I suppose it does.” Fisk added in agreement, nodding with confidence as he glanced down to Foggy, whose eyes leapt around in a frantic search for their next course of action. “But if the city is in danger, then I want Mr Cage by my side. For safety.”

“I’m sorry, Mr Fisk, Cage is still…” There was a hesitancy in his voice. He didn’t want to explain the obvious, which he did so with an awkward glance towards the cuffs that hooked around Luke’s wrists. However, the looming, towering, hulking mass of Wilson Fisk was a frightening figure. It was a sight that trembled the officer’s body and voice, as he gazed up towards the man.

“It’s probably we best leave, Fisk.” Foggy commented, clearly trying catch himself in Fisk’s eyeline as he sought some rationality in the situation.

The massive frame of Fisk almost expanded as he drew himself to his full height and his eyes narrowed at the sight of the officer’s hesitation. “You seem to misunderstand me. Luke Cage will leave this facility with me, right now.” His fists clenched and his voice rumbled with an authoritative fury, that goaded a sense of terror out of the officer, who stared up in panic.

Foggy leapt forward, catching himself stood between the officer and Fisk. Craning his neck to catch a full view of Fisk’s bald fury, he took a deep and heavy breath. “Fisk, listen. The city is under attack, and whilst I understand that having Luke with us would probably do us any good. He is safer here. And you have my word that Matt and I will do everything in our power to make sure he is out of here as soon as possible. But for now, we need to leave.” Beneath the cautious apprehension that peppered Foggy’s voice was a sense of determination. He found some solace and authority in the situation, as his eyes flitted between the three others in the room.

Karen hung on the other line, watching as the quietened screen revealed more information – an explanation on the mist, and the hypnotic trance and the cocoons. It explained a high fatality rate in the Metro system which was fortunately not met as it rose above ground. Whilst attention seemed to be swerving towards the new declaration by the Mayor of an emergency state.

“Do you think your word holds any weight with me, Mr Nelson?” Fisk asked coldly, in such a way that immediately shot a shiver down Foggy’s spine. There was a sense of malice and apathy which prompted Foggy to shift slightly in discomfort.

“It should.” Foggy shot back, with a new stance of confidence as he ignored the seeping sweat that beaded from his brow. “Because Matt and I have our route to freeing Luke, a legitimate and honest way that doesn’t involve strong-arming cops when they’re busy protecting the city you claim to love so much!”

Fisk’s jaw tightened. His lips curled slightly with a slither of rage toning them. His figure imposed itself in front o the cascading light that caught Foggy, and his eyes remained firmly fixed on Foggy, without any hesitancy. “Claim?” Fisk’s voice was now laced with the same emotion that shaped the fury on his face. His eyes were fixed with an unwavering focus on Foggy. “You believe my dedication to this city is a claim, Mr Nelson? I have worked to build this city. The success and resilience in cleaning this city stems from me. Don’t mistake your silly little courtroom victories for real power.”

Foggy felt his heart race, yet he stood firmly too. “Power doesn’t come from intimidation, Fisk. It comes from trust. And if you really care about this city, you should step aside and let the officers do their job.”

“Both of you should calm down. Foggy’s right – Fisk, if you want to help, get out there and do something useful. The city’s falling apart and you’re wasting time arguing.” Luke interrupted, feeling some apprehension watching the conflict unfold before him.

“Uh yeah,” Nervously, the officer trembled under the piercing gaze of Fisk. “What he said, we need to get everyone to safety.”

“Foggy,” Karen’s voice rang through the phone. “I’m going to call you back – I’ll try to get hold of Matt.” Karen stated, nervously, unconvinced by the notion that he managed to slip out of the prison before an attack swept across the city. Foggy replied dismissively as he and Fisk were escorted out of the room, not having even realised that Karen had already hung up the phone.

His eyes darted around the bland walls of the prison, glancing nervously to Fisk, whose storming march seemed to form itself as an act of protest. It was clear that a part of Fisk was enraged by the outcome. It was clear he wanted Luke Cage out of prison to interrogate him further. Perhaps use him as bait to lure in Willis, or as a source of information. Either way, he was unpleased to find himself without Luke Cage at his side.

As they were promptly signed out and led to the grounds beyond the gates and fences which stood tall and firm as barriers between the criminals and the world of civilians. Foggy’s eyes were vigilant in their search for Matt, frantically scanning the flat land for any indication as to where he could be. He had asked countless officers, but all replied with a hurried shrug.

Beyond a bridge that connected the island to the city, Foggy and Fisk stared into the chaos. Dark mist was drawn high into the sky, whilst sirens blared and roared. The city was dragged into pain and suffering – and it had no sign of stopping any time soon. Amongst the grey field of concrete were a variety of cars and armed guards and fences and barbed wire. The salty smell of the water tainted the air, drying Foggy’s mouth as he frantically swivelled around. The sounds of sirens and clashing tides were abruptly drowned out by the raging chopping of a helicopter which began to descend upon the grey field.

Fisk turned back to Foggy with might and power, his scowling eyes fixed upon him like a predator catching sight of prey. Foggy caught his hair as it was blasted by a strength of wind that shot down from the helicopter, gazing forward with a slight expression of discomfort as he was caught by Fisk’s eyes.

“Mr Nelson!” Bellowed Fisk’s voice, even capable of overpowering the deafening blasting of the helicopter. “You should join me!”

“I- I’m fine thank you, I think I’m going to wait for Matt!” Foggy’s voice was less powerful in the face of the helicopter, and was dampened slightly with a few repeats and a shrieking of his voice.

Fisk glared, unconvinced. “We both know, Mr Nelson, that your colleague will be preoccupied with the situation at hand. I can take you somewhere safe, to tide over the situation!” The offer was tempting to Foggy, as he glanced across the river and caught sight of the stirring of chaos behind him. Part of Foggy knew that this was just the beginning of something – that it was just the surface of a day that the city wouldn’t forget.

Although hesitant, Foggy knew Fisk was right. Matt was probably pre-occupied with the whole ordeal, and hanging around a prison was the last thing he wanted as his own city reached a tipping point of turmoil. The offer by Fisk loomed over him, a practical solution amidst the unfolding disaster that struck the city.

“We’re locking the area down in two minutes! You need to vacate now!” Yelled an officer, struggling against the gust of wind projected from the spiralling blades of the helicopter. The officer’s declaration prompted Foggy’s response, as he gulped at the notion of boarding with he enemy. His eyes fell upon Fisk, who’s bulky stature was embodied by a restrained fury and pride.

“Alright. But only because I need to get to Karen and Matt as soon as possible!”

Fisk grinned. His sharpened gaze peered into Foggy’s expression, marching towards the helicopter, his voice still raging over the piercing blades. “Wise choice, Mr Nelson! Step inside.” His arm gestured towards the opened door of the helicopter, whilst his face was proud and focused. With observant and careful eyes, Fisk scanned the expression of Foggy, to detect whether there was an inkling of doubt or suspicion.

Reluctantly complying, Foggy pulled himself inside. The flailing of his hair settled once he was inside, and he grasped onto the straps of the seat harness. Even inside, the thundering rotors of the blades screamed and shrieked. Foggy sat nervously in the time that Fisk followed, taking the seat opposite. This was his first time in a helicopter, and he could feel his stomach churning at the sight of the watery distance between Ryker’s Island and New York.

Even as Fisk sat across from Foggy, his face remained unreadable. His eyes and expression were enigmatic, trapped between rage and pride and happiness and respect and fury. Nothing made sense about the man, whose ambitions seemed to only make sense to himself. Perhaps, Foggy wondered, he caught a glimpse of calculation. Silent and careful.

The helicopter ascended with a heavy drag. The ground fell away and beneath, even from afar, the chaos spreading across the city was clear to Foggy. The rising mist cast a dark shadow of cloud above the gridlocked streets and the sea of flashing sirens which struggled in their travels through the city.

“What is that?” Foggy asked with a headset strapped to his shaggy flowing hair so that he and the others onboard could communicate.

“No clue, but I can only assume there is a dangerous element to it. I suspect this has the makings of Kilgrave.” Fisk answered, suspicion toning his voice as he glared out of the window. The aspect of rage simmering in his face like a glistening diamond.

“You reckon this is targeted?” Foggy replied nervously, trying to find the rationale of a man like Wilson Fisk.

“Everything in this city is targeted, Mr Nelson. My focus is on the person responsible.”

“And you think that’s Kilgrave?”

“There are very few that I imagine have a vendetta against this city like Kilgrave would.”

Before Foggy could find the words to respond, the helicopter jolted and veered slightly as a shockwave shot across the air. A deafening boom challenged the thundering blades and, as Foggy glanced down, he felt himself catch his breath. Fisk followed too, and the pair stared down towards the prison of Ryker’s Island. They watched as smoke billowed out and spiralled into the air, whilst new fires spread across the landscape. The smoke it formed cast a new mist into the sky, but a mist that was dark and black.

Foggy’s eyes fixated on the two massive explosions that had torn through the heart of Ryker’s Island, now feeling terror and guilt strike his heart. He imagined Matt still down there, trying to uncover or prevent something – because he must have heard the bombs ticking away or the men who were planting them. He must have suspected something – perhaps he was caught in the explosion and perhaps he was down there.

“Oh my god!” Expelled Foggy instinctively, glaring down towards the prison as it was consumed by smoke. He gripped onto his straps tightly, now realising the danger they were in as they were dragged through the air.

“A distraction, no doubt. Or an escalation of the chaos in the city.” Fisk muttered to himself, now trying to comprehend the situation below.

“We’re being rerouted to a secure location. The airspace over the city has been restricted.” Informed the pilot, whose voice crackled over the intercom. Foggy’s eyes were unwavering fixed on the explosions beneath, and the flee of terror as officers rushed to deal with the situation at hand. He was so fixated, in fact, that he failed to catch sight of Fisk’s enraged face, which turned towards the pilot.

“Stay on course!” He barked. “I’ll handle clearance!”

“I don’t think you understand, sir–” The voice responded apprehensively.

“I said stay on course!” His roar silenced the pilot, who took a gulp in compliance and continued towards the city. If there wasn’t the faint sounds of sirens caught beneath the chopping blades above, the helicopter would likely be caught in a moment of complete silence. Since neither Fisk, nor Foggy spoke and the pilot dared to not switch back on the intercom.

Yet a new noise broke through the helicopter. A flickering of white noise and whirring of the radio cut through the headsets like chalk against a blackboard, screeching in their ears. Fisk turned around furiously, whilst Foggy’s eyes faltered from the sight the burning prison.

“Good morning, New York City. I believe you need a weather update!” A sharp, cruel, British voice poisoned the wavelengths. Foggy and Fisk’s eyes met, now sharing an element of terror, which almost seemed unique to the hulking man. But both men recognised the voice, it was hard not to. There was no doubting in either of their minds.

It was Kilgrave.

***

"Karen. Karen. Karen. Karen." Matt's phone rang incessantly.

Matt wheezed and coughed and waved his hand away to dismiss the lingering smoke that caught his throat. His ears were filled with a painful screeching white noise, as his eardrum rang and recovered from the piercing sound of the harsh explosion. Rubble cluttered his feet, whilst his nose was filled with the stench of smoke and flame and burning and debris. Gritty grains lingered on his tongue, whilst any effort to rid the sensation let a flood of smoke infiltrate his body.

His mind cast back to a few moments before, trying to make sense of what let to the wall propelling him towards the ground. He recalled two men, each wielding an explosive – which he was convinced he had stopped. He remembered the heavy panting and the pained fists, and the awkward sensation of being openly exposed to being seen as a fighting hero in his suit and glasses.

Then, as he let out another painful cough, he remembered the specific detail of the second ticking his ears caught the sound of. A second explosive. And then a third. And then, just as quickly and abruptly the realisation had hit him, the force of the explosion jetted him across the room with frightful force and smothered him in debris.

He stumbled towards one of the men, seized them by the collar and gripped them tightly.

“Who did this? Who hired you?” The man began to whimper. Pathetically, he cried and struggled, begging Matt to not hurt him. He caught his own reflection in Matt’s ash-covered glasses and Matt heard his heart quicken. Terror struck him, oozed out of him in the form of beading sweat. Trembling hands and sputtering words made it obvious to Matt that these men were barely responsible.

“The man- The purple man – In the suit. With the British accent. He- he- he m- made us!”

“One of you said the boss-”

“On- one of his m- men.”

“His men?” Matt asked, his hearing now catching the sounds of various guards and inmates who swarmed the grounds in a sea of mass excitement and panic. Not wanting to be caught, Matt heaved the man upwards and began to walk him to safety. His ears tuning into the details of the compound to find a safe location. His head tilted and he observed the smells and the ringing and the sounds and the density of the air, calculating with precision for the perfect place of safety. Matt led them to an untouched and quiet corridor, which was so out of the way that Matt considered it a temporary safe haven. “His men, who were they?”

“N- No ide- idea. They were already with hi- him. They d- d- did say something to- together at one point. Like, Hail Hydration or so- something. May- Maybe they- they’re water people?” Matt sighed, realising the man had absolutely no clue what was going on.

Then he heard it again. Ringing through the walls and travelling through the air, beckoning along the wavelengths of the radio. The voice of the devil. “Good morning, New York City. I believe you need a weather update!”

***

Luke had been escorted through the building, half way back to his cell as a ripple of destruction tore through the prison.  With no warning of the blast, Luke felt it as it hit him hard. He hunched over and felt the mass of debris shoot against him, nothing quite harming him, besides the being of actually being hit. His eyes watched as the torn down walls collapsed against the guards escorting him, and their fainting unconscious bodies were submerged in the bricks of the walls. The fragments of rubble trapping them to the ground, whilst it had pelted his skin like pebbles against an ocean.

His ears caught the sound of excited inmates, with the freedom and chaos offering them release from the confines of their own consequences. Whooping and hollering, they took the destruction as a rare taste of freedom. Guards raced around in an effort to find some methods to calm the situation down, whilst fires raged across the prison. Their voices and orders were barked in panicked rage, uncertain how to respond to the fires and crumbling of walls.

Luke glanced down towards the two guards. He could smell the salt water of the surrounding body of water mingle with he scent of smoke and ash and, for a moment, he thought back to his last escape. A flicker in his mind urged him to run and flee. Invincibility could take him anywhere, he was practically uncatchable if he refused to back down. Another life was open to him, offered to him on a platter.

But then the image of Pops and Harlem flashed in his mind. Stryker’s invisible skin and the people who had learned to understand and respect him as the man he was. Before him laid two struggling officers – police, just like he once was – and he realised the taste of freedom was as foul as the salt water that crashed against the island.

Without hesitation, Luke knelt down and began to thrust heavy bricks and pieces of the wall across the corridor. His massive hands dug through the debris, tossing away concrete and twisted metal, flinging them as though they were mere paperweights. Brick after brick flew across the corridor, until he cleared enough space to pull free the officers.

The two guards stirred, coughing and wheezing as they came to. Their confused eyes fell upon Luke, who stood with his hands outstretched, waiting to be cuffed again, as the chain between them had seemingly snapped.

They rose in a fit of coughing and confused wheezing, watching as Luke offered out his hands to be cuffed again.

“Nah, we could use strength like that.” One of the officers stated, smiling as he glanced up to Luke. “Help us, and I’m sure we could work out a deal.”

“Seems everybody wants you out of prison today.” Remarked the officer, smirking at the notion.

Luke glanced around at the crumbling prison and the flicker of chaos in every direction. He didn’t trust the offer, but for now, he nodded, rolling his shoulders. “Let’s get to work.”

Chapter Text

“Good morning, New York City. I believe you need a weather update! Sunny? Cloudy? No, no, no. Let’s call it… misty, with a hint of an ancient mineral. Terrigen, to be precise.

Today is the day we test the so-called heroes of this world with a little experiment. They have saved New York before – they’ve stopped killer robots and aliens and mutants. All very impressive, but today we pose the question. What if… the threat wasn’t so otherworldly. How do our heroes approach this intrepid day when the monsters are your neighbours and colleagues, or even, maybe… you? How will they respond to a plan that has been orchestrated to stretch the city to it’s limits, with a ticking countdown to the next point of chaos.

Over to you Kilgrave for the news. Thank you Kilgrave. Yes, spreading throughout the subway system is a mostly harmless mist. Reports suggest anybody on an actual train is actually dead, or awake with new powers. Because this mist that is spreading actually has a sweet little genetic twist – if you have the correct genes, you win a prize! You get superpowers. There are also a few enhancements to the old formula – I’ve spliced it up with my own little virus and laced it with pheromones that will bend your precious little wills like putty. And for the fresh new Inhumans out there, there’s a touch of Hive’s spores, because it’s Mind Control Monday!

This just in, over at Ryker’s Island, we’ve kicked off this morning with two spectacular explosions. Prison riots are breaking out across the compound – and, oh, this just in too – there are three more explosives primed for detonation across the city. Fortunately, our old friends over at SHIELD should be on that.

Now, I’m sure you’re wondering, Why? Why is this charming man suffocating an entire city? What does he want? Is he really English? Yes, and now let me enlighten you.

Once upon a time, a woman I loved was broken by powers she never asked for. Her family were lost in a car crash and she lived a life of bitter regret, never capable of loving those who loved her back – all in shame of the powers she was forced to have. Then there was a dear friend of mine. Blinded. Whose powers meant he was tortured by seeing the true extent of the darkness in mankind. But he didn’t want his powers, and couldn’t accept the help that was on offer. And me? Tortured, experimented on, turned into what I am today. All because of humanity’s insatiable greed. Greed for power. Greed for control. Greed that started the day Howard Stark decided to play god.

We all know the story of the star-spangled boy scout, Steve Rogers. A super-soldier. The perfect soldier. But what came next? Fear. Terror. Countries scrambling to make their own Steve Rogers – but they didn’t make heroes. They made killers. Monsters. Abominations. And that’s before the aliens arrived. Or the gods. Or the robots. Forget the Nuclear Arms Race – the secret underworld of our nations were building super soldiers! Mass destruction on a smaller scale.

So the world turned. It sought new ways to push those boundaries. It created the Winter Soldier, it formed SHIELD to combat HYDRA. It created abominations that wrecked Harlem, and men in armoured suits. And then that feigned old story of Captain America returned to us, and the world grew restless and terrified. And we had aliens falling from the sky, and gods swarming our world, and then killer robots and whole countries falling. We kept pushing. We kept playing with fire. And now, people like me… and people like Jessica. We are the ones who burn.

The bombs will detonate in twenty minutes, I have a few planned armed robberies for lunch, and if we’re still going by half-twelve, I have sixteen stockbrokers ready to collapse the global economy. So, Avengers, here’s your chance to prove me wrong. Show me you’re the heroes you pretend to be. Stop the bombs, contain the mist, save the stockbrokers and, if you can manage all of that, come and find me.

See you soon.”

***

The broadcast of Kilgrave’s menacing voice and cruelly sarcastic and mocking demeanour was spread around the city. His voice crackled over radios, whilst his face was plastered across TVs. Time Square was lit up with the cruel face, the chiselled jaw layered in stubble. The purple gleamed from his infamous suit, whilst his white teeth glistened under the spotlight as he spoke. His eyes were powerful with a sadistic glare. The English accent raging and burning in the ears of people who caught sound of it. The voice of the devil, some seeing it as the voice of wisdom as their minds rattled with his virus.

Perched atop a building, Peter Parker observed the spiralling mist that faded into the sky. He watched the gridlocked cars waiting anxiously, hoping the mist wouldn’t creep into their cars through windows or motors or any other pipe and gap. He watched as people reached inside building and watched the chaos from their windows. TVs lit up rooms, as the broadcast from Kilgrave played around the city.

Peter’s attention was drawn away from the city, as he felt a vigorous buzzing from his pocket. Peter’s head shot around, panicked and alert, caught on edge and by surprise as his moment of contemplation was disturbed by his ringtone. An old theme song from a TV series older than himself prompted him to shoot his hand down and reach for his pocket, sighing as he saw his Aunt May’s smiling face – knowing perfectly well that it didn’t accurately convey her current expression.

“Oh, Peter, than god you picked up!” Relief in her voice was only temporary as she shouted, her voice blaring through the speaker, almost louder than the sea of sounds from the streets below. “Is everything okay? I was watching the news – before this Kilgrave guy popped up – there’s smoke and that mist. People are saying it’s dangerous to even breathe it in! I was going to say you should get back home but it says the city’s gridlocked and the subway was attacked.”

Peter bit his lip, feeling some pre-emptive guilt as he realised the lie that sat on his tongue. “Everything’s fine, May.” A statement which couldn’t be further from the truth, as he stared down and watched the chaos amongst the streets. “I’m safe in Fisk’s penthouse. It’s way up high, far from everything down there.” The forced lie was conceived with a casual and natural tone in his voice. Guilt gnawed away at him for a moment, but he knew without any doubt that the truth of where he was and what he was doing was infinitely worse that any biting that guilt did.

Relief washed over May, as her breath was loud and weltered to a calmness. “Thank god. I was worried you were running around doing errands. I mean, first I wasn’t even listening to the news. I had my headphones in, cleaning and hoovering and then I thought I’d start baking. Make you something nice, because you’ve been doing so well with that Mr Fisk and school. And I was worried that working for a billionaire like Fisk would interrupt your educati–”

“May, it’s just an internship. Great for my resume. Not to mention he’s been pretty decent to me so far. But I have to go, still got some work to do. Coffee to make!” He forced a chuckle, trying his best to wean himself off the phone call, feeling practically surgically attached to it. There was a pause, and he could feel May’s hesitation; he could feel her fear that, if he hung up the phone, she lost all certainty of his safety.

“Okay, just be careful. You’re such a good kid, with such a big hear. I don’t want you doing anything dangerous.”

“Nothing dangerous. Got it. I promise.” The guilt twisted further in his chest, almost starting to hurt as he considered the extremes of the lie he was telling.

“Alright,” She relented, still heavy with the weight of fear and anxiety. A heavy sigh sounded from her end, and he forced some positive tone to her voice. “If things get bad, don’t hesitate to call me. And Peter, please stay put in the penthouse. You’re safe there. I love you.”

“I will. I love you too May.” The lie of staying in the penthouse was already broken, and he swallowed hard as he glanced down at the mist which crept through the streets. He heard the end of the phone call and he lowered it, staring at his aunts face for the brief lingering moment, with the lie sitting in his chest. Weighing down and suffocating him for a moment. He imagined her face if something bad happened… but he dismissed it.

Peter glanced down the phone clasped in his hand, with his thumb hovering over Matt’s name with impatient fervour running through him. He could feel his heart pounding heavily in his chest, hitting the call button once again. He listened as the phone rang against his ears, incessantly and futile. Waiting for an answer, his eyes scanned the streets below – he spotted a mother hurrying her child to the safety of a building, her face pale with terror.

His ears caught the sound of the broadcast, the cruel British voice and audible sneering smile. “…a dear friend of mine. Blinded. Whose powers meant he was tortured by seeing the true extent of the darkness in mankind….”  Peter thought of  Matt, almost certain that Kilgrave was undoubtedly talking about Matt. His heart pounded in his chest, heavy and painful as he waited and watched.

“Peter?” Without warning the ringing had ended and a voice responded. An urgent and confused voice of Matt, who seemed panicked or stressed or busy. Peter felt his grip tighten as he stared down, squatting with observant eyes staring around the city. “Peter, where are you at the moment?”

“Hell’s Kitchen…” He replied nervously, staring down at the street replied, half expecting the outraged response from Matt.

“At Fisk’s penthouse?” There was a tone of blurred hope in Matt’s voice, who wasn’t sure whether Peter being occupied at Fisk’s penthouse was a good thing or not. Yet, as the silence grew, Matt felt the daunting realisation that it would probably be better than the response he was going to receive when Peter admitted the truth. “Peter?” There was a pressing tone to Matt’s voice now, forceful and agitated. Peter could hear shouting sirens on the other end, but thought best not to raise questions amidst delivering an answer he knew wasn’t wanted.

“I left the penthouse when I saw the smoke.” Peter admitted, hearing the frustration of Matt on the other end. “I couldn’t just stay up there. People need help. People need us, Matt.”

“You do not need to get involved. Letting you help with Fisk was dangerous enough, but this is serious crap. Kilgrave is behind this–”

“I know.” Peter interjected quickly, in some effort to make himself seem less childish and more competent in the face of Matt’s persistent refusal. “I’ve heard the broadcast. It’s being looped. But if the Avengers do come to help, then they’re just playing into his hand. We need to go and stop him.” Peter seemed adamant and energetic at the concept, brimming with hope and excitement as he considered the notion of fighting a threat that even the Avengers were too scared to face. His mind flashed back to standing alongside Iron Man, donning the very helmet his hero wore, and watching the suited hero destroy a robot before him.

He wanted that feeling again.

“No, Peter. I need to stop him. You need to go back home.”

“I can’t. Roads are blocked, subways shut down.” Peter refused, trying his best to find any excuse available to him. His head cocked to the side, now feeling a run of tingling sensations shoot down his spine. His hair stood on edge like soldiers readying for battle, as he heard an eruption of screaming and sirens. “When you have the powers that we have, and you don’t use them – and bad things happen like this. They happen because of us. So I’ve gotta go – if you won’t let me help you, there’s still stuff I can do!”

“No, Pet–” Matt’s voice was cut off by the end of the dialling tone.

Peter thrust his phone away safely and readjusted his makeshift mask. He glared through the goggles, focusing and honing his senses to catch sight of the key target. He readied himself, listening to the exact placement of the sirens and the shouting and the car horns. He studied his suit very quickly, with the web fluid he needed fully stocked and his mask fully covering his face – almost as a protection from the mist as well as his identity.

Gracefully landing upon a nearby lamppost, he watched a scene of utter chaos. Water splattered through the air, shooting out from a fire hydrant, which had a beige sedan crumpled against it. Thick and eerie mist danced around the water as it carried itself into the air. Two other cars added to the mist with billowing smoke, whilst their windows were shattered and bumpers were creased and torn.

Two officers were at the scene – although Peter only knew they were officers because he caught sight of their badges which dangled around their necks. One woman, mixed race with large curly hair, and a damp jacket that dripped constantly, was ordering people to stay calm. Wrapped around her face was a ripped piece of fabric, protecting her from the mist. Whilst the other officer, a white brunette woman, with wide eyes and also soaked by the fire hydrant, tried her best to check on the people who had crashed. She checked for injuries in the face of no other rescue services able to even reach the scene.

Yet, Peter’s instincts were triggered. He was brought on high alert and a surge of sensation surged down his spine, tingling every part of him. His nerves buzzed and his ears ignored the shouting and the gushing and the barking of orders. It was then, once he had singled out the rest of the sounds from around the world, that he heard it. His ears had finetuned the world, flitting through everything as if finding the correct and cleanest frequency on the radio. And then his gaze shifted towards the crumpled sedan

Muffled cries of a woman.

“Officer!” Shouted Peter, waving to get either attention of the woman. He attracted both of their attention, but it was the curly-haired one that spoke first as she glared up towards him.

“Oh great, that’s exactly what we need. Vigilantes in silly suits.” She complained, “At least they keep to themselves in Harlem.”

“The trunk of that car. Get everybody away from it!” Peter ignored the officer’s annoyance and thrust his hand towards the car. He watched as her eyes glanced around confused, but as his voice was heard by everyone, she hadn’t quite expected an outraged outburst from the car’s owner.

He began to push and shout, getting more physical as he did so. Peter watched as the officer struggled against him, as the man began shouting something harsh in Russian that neither of them understood. The officer got more enraged by the hostility, eventually seizing him by the wrist and twisting it to his back, grappling him in an arresting stance.

Taking the brief moment of calm amidst the ensuing chaos, Peter thrust his wrist forward and projected a string of web from his forearm. A thwipping noise broke through the air and the white chemically fluid, compactly designed to appear like a web, licked the trunk. With a yank of his arm, the trunk went flying off it’s hinges – to which Peter grimaced slightly at the sight of. Although, the awkwardness of ripping off the trunk door was quickly squandered by the helpless sight of a screaming, crying woman, bound in the back.

The other officer, and various other civilians raced to help the woman, whilst the curly-haired officer pushed the man to his knees and clasped the cold steel of handcuffs around his wrists without any hesitation. After reading the man his rights, and berating him slightly for his act, she turned to Peter, puzzled and confused.

Peter, busily trying to make himself seem useful, began thrwipping the fire hydrant, hoping the webbing fluid would hold back against the gushing of water. “Don’t mind me, just doing my best impression of a handyman. Web duct tape: 100% effective, 0% warranty!” Peter gleamed with an unseeable smile, watching as he sealed the hydrant.

“How did you-”

“Spider senses.” He smirked, signalled by a slight shift in his face. “I’m not usually around these parts – just thought I’d pass through to give a helping hand.”

“You sound like a kid.” The officer raised her eyebrow, smirking slightly. A pause confirmed her suspicion, as Peter struggled to find a response to the statement.

“That’s just the youthful enthusiasm!” He quipped nervously.

“Well, word to the wise, keep safe out here. Harlem, where I’m from, is familiar and safe to me. Here, I almost feel like a fish out of water. So go home, keep safe. You’re better off alive at home, than dead in this Hell’s Kitchen of all places.”

Peter frowned, although not visible beneath his mask. In his mind he could hear Matt’s protesting, whilst his heart twisted with the guilt of his aunt. He considered all the people who had urged him to stay away. But that image of standing beside Tony Stark resonated in his mind, a strong image of heroism. It was an image he couldn’t shake.

“This city needs all the help it can get-” Peter froze as he interrupted himself with a sudden bout of silence. His ears were caught by an abrupt sound of cars smashing and a heavily armoured truck pulling itself through a busy street.

The officer stared up, watching as the masked boy jolted his head aside. She waited for a moment in the silence, confused as she watched him. “What’s the matter?” She asked, waiting for a response, with the next ten seconds or so caught in complete and awkward silence.

“Kilgrave’s broadcast said armed robberies – I think one is about to happen!” Now on a high alert with adrenaline pumping through his body, Peter raised his wrist to a nearby building and pulled himself along a webline. Below him, an adible gasp escaped the mouths of the civilians who watched the Spiderman swing overhead.

There was a slight relief in that the mist was now beginning to wain and fade, it’s source underground now gone completely. Yet, the city was beginning to raise in new smoke, and Peter watched below as new sources of fires had broken out. Cars and shops and even a few homes bore new fires. Small and easy to address, but it was a sign scattered around – and it was clear that Kilgrave’s pheromones were hitting some people more than others.

Although the most striking sight were the calm people. The people who wandered down the street with no awareness of the world around them – whilst rare and few between, Peter did catch sight of wanderers, almost trapped in a trance. Yet, he had no time to stop and ponder, with his attention swiftly turning to the sound of the armoured truck.

An armoured black van ploughed through the gridlocked streets like a battering ram. It’s reinforced frame smashed cars aside, either crumpling them or pushing them, or in some cases flipping them over. Shards of glass and twists of metal shot through the air, as screams erupted from civilians leaping out of the way, and angered shouts coming from drivers whose cars had been relentless tossed aside like snow caught in the wings of a snowplough.

Peter could feel his heart pounding heavily in his chest. He listened to the rage of sirens that broke out in the distance, although too far and caught in the mess of the gridlocked streets to make a difference. His eyes canned the scene, searching for the roots of a strategy. His eyes glanced towards the towering buildings either side, and then shot down to the tires of the van, and then he caught sight of the panicked civilians who scrambled for cover.

“Think, Spidey, think!” He muttered under his breath, trying to immerse himself into the feeling of a superhero.

An instinct dug its way into him, as he swung down low and close towards the van and anchored it’s tries between the two buildings. Web shot down from his forearms, catching the tires in a heavy thwip. A flicker of relief overcame him for a moment, until the van violently jerked and the webs snapped taut, the tires squeal against the strain. Despite their appearance of faltering speed, it pursued it’s roaring through the street, ripping the webs completely.

“Okay, plan B!” Peter growled to himself, flipping through the air and landing himself upon the van’s roof. Feeling unstable in his stance, he felt the impact of his landing echo a metallic clang below. He pulled himself to a comfortable stance, crawling along the roof and yanking open the driver’s side door.

A burly man with a wild-eyed glare, scars and the stench of cigarettes stared at Peter in confusin. His gritted teeth revealed unkept teeth and a golden shimmering one which stood out obtusely. In response to seeing the masked figure, the driver snarled and swerved, trying his best to shake him off, yet he failed. Peter clung tightly, ignoring the blurry world and the dizziness that tried to overcome him.

Reaching down to grab the wheel, Peter attempt to wrestle for control. “Hey! Pull over buddy!” He quipped, promptly met with a violent jerk of the thug’s elbow. Peter moved just in time, jolting out of the way with a perfect dogdge, before countering with a swift shot of web that glued the driver’s arm to the door. “I’ve been on worse rides at Coney Island. They serve pretzels at the end, though. What’s your deal?”

Now, Peter’s attention was drawn towards the passenger, who lunged for his gun. A sharp thwip shot through the air, and a web enveloped the man’s hand and gun against the dashboard. “Road rage and firearms do not mix.”

Amongst the chaos in the driver’s seat, the van swerved wildly, narrowly missing a group of screaming and diving civilians.

“Stop the van!” Peter’s words were drowned out by the sudden screech of metal, as the vehicle slammed against a lamppost. The sudden impact jolted Peter slightly, but his firm clasp against the roof kept him steady. He watched as steam hissed from the engine and the front crumpled like black card.

The two thugs groaned and struggled against the webbing, bound to the interior of the car. “Don’t worry, fellas. Paramedics will be here soon—right after the cops, a tow truck, and maybe a new teacher for your driving lessons.” They glanced around, disoriented by the crash, before feeling another shot of webbing bind them to the car.

“Two down.” Peter muttered to himself, glancing around as fires burnt and cars crashed and people ran for safety. “But how many left to go…”

Chapter Text

Once, in the Battle of New York, the city was defended by a small few. Their efforts brought the battle to it’s end, but they were celebrated. Now, this attack of New York was the epicentre of a heroic focus. Kilgrave posed no bigger threat than invading aliens, but somehow, it was far more terrifying. Somehow, just one man and his weak alien pet, seemed to bring the city to it’s knees in chaos and destruction and panic.

It called in vigilantes and spies and even the promise of Avengers. But as the morning stirred, the faith in safety faded.

***

Once the Quinjet had landed atop the Avengers tower, the Agents of SHIELD has shot into work. There was no hesitation or doubt or reluctance. There were no arguments or negotiations, but instead immediate action. They were all confident in what was needed to be done and how they would go about it.

The team had split into four pairings – tactically decided by Coulson, who hunched over for twenty minutes trying to formulate the best strategy. He had latched a pair of headphones to envelope his ears in silence as he did so, wanting to be taken away from all distractions that posed a threat to the tension of the planning he was under.

Fitz-Simmons were to remain in the Quinjet. Coulson figured Simmons had seen enough action lately upon the alien planet, and their works of science was best down remotely. Should an evacuation be needed, they were the two he relied on most in escaping safely.

He and Rosalind were to locate and defuse the Avengers Tower bomb. Partially with selfish intent, Coulson wanted to avoid any harm being done to Rosalind, whilst also knowing the original plans for the Stark tower to some considerable degree. He knew it’s weak points – the places you would want to place a bomb if you wanted to cause the most destruction.

Finally, Mack and Daisy were to deal with the bomb threat in Central Park whilst Bobbi and May were designated to the bomb threat at the Manhattan bridge. He had not particular reason for either, but there was a reason he convinced himself of prior that he had forgotten about by the time they landed. All that Coulson knew was that the alternatives had no sway on him like this plan did – these were his instincts, and he trusted them well.

As they vacated the Quinjet in an orderly and panicked manner, their eyes laid upon the wreckage of the city. As mist broke through the sky and bouts of smoke broke across the city of New York. People screamed and sirens wailed, and there was a shared memory of 2012. The last time New York was plunged into a battle it had hardly recovered from. Coulson glanced back to Fitz and Simmons one final time, a glimmer of hope resonating in his eyes as he saw them as the last hope for SHIELD.

Furiously typing code in some efforts to override the security protocols of the Avengers Tower, Fitz’ eyes barely diverted from the screen. Annoyingly, he found the unrelenting lines of code that streamed across the screen incredibly more complex in comparison to most security protocols that he had dealt with.

“Bloody hell, Stark. Could’ve made this easier for us, couldn’t you?” He complained, staring up for a brief moment, calmed by the sight of Simmons.

“Problems, Fitz?” Simmons asked, a grin etched across her face as she recalled telling Fitz about the complicated security that a billionaire probably had – and then she recalled his ego and confidence and his notion that his years at the academy could outsmart an engineer like Stark.

“Nothing a genius can’t solve,” he replied, his tone dry. “But, uh, don’t hold your breath. These security protocols—Stark must’ve gone overboard after the Ultron fiasco. Layers on layers. Like peeling an onion, except the onion’s booby-trapped.”

“What did I tell you? Besides, Coulson should be fine. He knows the place.”

“Yes, but the last thing we want is a load of old Iron Man suit drones thinking he’s target practice.”

“Have you ever been to New York City?” Simmons asked, as she hovered around a blue holographic projection of Manhattan, which cast a gentle glowing blue upon her face. She watched the skyline view of the city, of meticulously ordered buildings and skyscrapers that traipsed through the clouds; studying it intensely.

“On a mission, probably.”

“No – like actually visited it.”

“Last place I’d wanna go. They’re attacked every other bloody year.” He remarked cynically, barely glancing up from the screen before him.

Simmons considered his response, with a shrug of ‘fair enough’ before resuming her work. Eventually she fell into some relief as three blinking orange dots spread across the map – each in the expected locations. The Avengers Tower, Central Park and Manhattan Bridge.

As she scrutinised the map, a soft exhale left her lips. “We’ve got active bomb signatures confirmed in each location.” Simmons explained, her voice ringing with urgency as her eyes scanned the hologram. “I’ve sent specifics to you all – but there’s more… Something else…”

“Something else? That not ominous at all.” Fitz remarked, glancing up from the computer that he was hunched over.

“Simmons, I don’t like that silence. Spit it out.” Coulson’s voice rang over the crackling comms. Anticipating the bad news, his voice waned in faith. A moment of silence followed again, leaving the open comms call an anxious vat of impatience, until her voice already set off.

Her eyes glanced towards three other bombs, two set off at Ryker’s Island, and the third still a blinking orange dot. “Two explosions have been reported at Ryker’s Island.”

“Ryker’s Island?” Daisy asked, familiar with the city as her voice broke through the crackling.

“Explosions? As in Prison Break explosions, or-” The comms began to crackle through Coulson’s question, with a piercing white noise that prompted both Fitz and Simmons to rip the ear piece out. They could feel their ear drum still ringing with the abrupt and horrible sounds. They winced for a moment, pained by the sounds, until their attention was yanked away from the painful ringing and instead, towards the radio. As their heads turned to the crackling and tuning and buzzing, they heard a voice – one they recognised distinctly to be Kilgrave’s.

Even the ear-pieces clasped in their hands played the broadcast quietly in their hand.

The cabin of the Quinjet fell silent, as they listened to the broadcast. As it explained everything that was happening across the city – as he ran through the meticulous plan of Kilgrave’s chaos. The terrigen mist that was laced with a mind controlling virus and spores of an Inhuman-controlling Inhuman. The explosives and the chaos and the motivation. The threats of more chaos and more destruction, with the only solution seeming to be the Avengers.

Once it ended, Fitz and Simmons both reinserted their comms, tuning the frequency back to the original to avoid listening to the repeat of the broadcast. She opened it to chatter, panic from the other agents, however it was all directed to Daisy.

“… to safety. Daisy, you need to return to the Quinjet.” Ordered Coulson, concerned by the image of losing Daisy to Hive’s spores.

“No – not until we’ve defused the bomb.” Daisy was fierce and adamant, knowing her priority was rescuing the city from an explosive device primed in a busy open space. She panted as she spoke, mid-run as she finally approached the very edges of the park.

“Coulson’s right, Daisy. If you’re infected, you pose a greater risk than any of us.” May spoke calmly, the sound of a raging motorbike raging through the comms. She was calm and sensible, wanting to avoid the same incident of losing a friend to the creature like they had with Hunter.

“You heard the broadcast – it’s laced with Kilgrave’s virus. We are all a risk.” Daisy argued back. Now she was trying to ignore her powers, knowing that the last thing she wanted to raise awareness towards were her quaking powers.

“Daisy, this is an order.” Coulson’s voice was firm, tinted with a growing sense of agitation. “Get back to the Quinjet – leave Mack to deal with those bombs. Simmons, focus on monitoring those bombs. Fitz, keep working on overriding the Tower’s systems. I’ll reach out to Hill and see if she can confirm what’s happening at Ryker’s.” There was a tone of finality that lined his voice. The comm faded into a brief moment of crackling. Whilst there was no telling if Daisy complied, there was no doubting her instruction had been received with strict irritation.

*

It was no surprise to anybody that Daisy had ignored Coulson’s order. With a tightened jaw and determined look lining her expression, she pushed through the chaos of the street. In some effort to counteract the fears by May and Coulson, she did find herself holding her breath as she passed through the street and any steam or mist that caught her, but beyond that, she knew what she needed to do.

Mack scoffed as she continued, wielding his axe-shotgun over his shoulder, as his eyes scanned the chaos of the street. “You know Coulson’s gonna kill you for this, right?”

“I’d rather he killed me than that English prick.” She remarked, smirking as she caught Mack’s eyes as they waited for the perfect moment to cross. Mack gestured his head in agreement, considering fate better to be left in the hands of Coulson than Kilgrave.

As they reached the gates of Central Park, they found that the tranquil space of vast greenery and picnics and dog walks had been transformed into a battleground. The last few of frightened civilians were scrambling out, whilst distant sirens and far-off car alarms raged through the city.

Daisy glanced down towards the data Simmons had sent, finding that the bomb had been situated by the fountain at Bethesda Terrace. Knowing that, they shot into action across the park. Their boots slamming against the paved path, feeling the wind hit their face as they ignored the distant noises of destruction and chaos. Although Daisy and Mack found some beauty in the park, half wanting to stop and admire the plants and trees and design, they couldn’t. They ignored a coffee vendor who stood his ground and an adamant old lady who busied herself with dog walking, and finally screeched to a halt as they arrived at the fountain.

The fountain had been wrapped in explosives, wires running around it like twisting vines, whilst small metallic boxes ticked in anticipation. Checking their watches, they had ten minutes left – which seemed perfectly fine at a glance, but once Daisy and Mack began to scan the fountain and the wires, noticing how they all led towards a sleek black metal shell, their attention was drawn to movement.

Daisy felt her heart sink as her eyes fell upon a group of figures marching towards them from the tree line. As she narrowed her eyes to catch a better look, she observed their unflinching storming movements of the men and women. As Daisy glared a little harder, her eyes made out their faces. Empty of expression and glossy behind the eyes, they appeared to be out of control of themselves.

“We’ve got company.” Mack remarked, holding his finger to his comm, almost hoping that making everybody aware of that fact would change the circumstance slightly.

“How many?” Simmons asked nervously.

“Enough to ruin our day. But we also have visual on the package. Fancy kit, they’ve rigged the fountain with explosives.”

“Fitz, Simmons,” Daisy’s voice quickly interjected in the silence of the comms, hoping that Coulson was too busy to respond to her defiance of his instructions. “Any chance you can walk me through defusing that thing?”

“Not remotely.” Simmons replied sharply. “Don’t you know how to defuse it?”

“I could take a guess, but I’d prefer to hear from the experts, you know?”

“You’d need Fitz–”

“Not an option. We’ve got incoming.” Daisy interrupted Simmons suddenly, her eyes watching as a hail of gunfire erupted.  The pair dove for cover behind a park bench, listening as bullets ricoheted off the metal armrests and cracked against the armrest. The rhythmic pellets of gunfire shrieked in the air, whilst the impending sound of footsteps gradually reached them.

“I get a feeling they’re HYDRA.” Mack growled, tightening his grip around the axe-shotgun. Now, as he gazed across towards them, he noticed their body armour and holsters. These weren’t ordinary civilians dragged under Kilgrave’s influence, but instead armed guards fuelled by the possession of a cruel English bastard.

Daisy glanced down to her watch, nine minutes remaining. Kilgrave’s plan to create chaos was working, as she felt her heart pounding in her chest. “Cover me while I go for the bomb.” She instructed, her voice firm and indisputable. Although Mack would’ve preferred they didn’t deal with the bomb at all, he felt some comfort in passing the onus onto Daisy. The responsibility rested on her, relieving some pressure from him as he went about doing what he did best.

In a hurried bolt, Diasy zigzagged across the open space. Mack cursed under his breath as he followed, springing into action and firing calculated bursts at the HYDRA thugs. Reluctant shots were made against their arms and legs, in more of an attempt to incapacitate than kill. The hail of gunfire was now shared between them, as they darted for safety and cover.

Before Daisy was an intricate web of wires, which she held in her trembling hands for a moment. She crouched low and ignored the bullets, feeling the heavy pounding in her chest as she stared at the sleek casing of the bomb’s core. “Fitz!” She tapped her comm anxiously, her voice hurried with each word thrown out in a state of panic. “I need something–anything. Blue wire? Red wire? How do I stop this thing?”

The crackling of the comm was interrupted by Fitz’ similarly urgent voice. He was strained between various technical issues to focus on, with the concerned expression of Simmons cast upon him. “First, Daisy, don’t just start cutting wire. Do that and you’ll blow something up. There should be a main trigger circuit – best clue is a wire leading into the bomb. Probably braided.”

Daisy winced at the gunfire that stormed above her head, as her hand scrambled along the various wires that led into the sleek black casing, which shimmered with the faint reflection of the sunlight that managed to break through the clouds and mist. After a moment or two of searching for the wire, Daisy found it, which she revealed with an excited, “Got it! What’s next?”

“Trace it back to the detonator. It will probably be tiny. Maybe tucked under–” Fitz cut himself off as he heard the slamming of a metal rod against the stone rim of the fountain.

The harsh swooping sound resonated through the earpiece, as it narrowly missed Daisy’s head before she jolted out of the way on instinct. The brick that was hit began to crack and splinter, crumbling slightly, but Daisy found herself relieved that it wasn’t herself. Spinning around, she thrust her arm out and felt a raw surge of power ripple through her. The air was manipulated as a powerful quaking trembled her hand. A familiar hum of her powers sounded from her fingertips, as a wave of concussive energy burst from her hands and sent the attacker far across the park. He landed with a heavy thud.

“Daisy! Focus.” Fitz ordered, his ears tuned to the sound of Daisy’s panting of groaning as she dodged and darted.

“Sorry, I’ll just tell the mind-controlled HYDRA goons to leave me alone.” Daisy retorted, irritated by his instruction. Her voice was strained as she ducked out of the way of a bullet that splintered through the air. She jolted back down to the ground and fell against it, her trembling hands tracing back the wire as per her last instruction.

Mack held the line against the attackers, who now began to opt for melee weapons as their guns ran out of bullets. Despite their blank and expressionless faces, their movements were coordinated perfectly. It was almost unnerving how synchronised and well-timed they were, moving like puppets running a show with perfect precision. One of the men, a hulking man wielding a metal pipe, charged towards Mack. His striding footsteps pounding the ground like a stampeding creature. In response, Mack leapt aside and swept the attacker’s legs with his shotgun, before timing it perfectly for a precise strike to the man’s head.

It was now that Mack saw the influence of Kilgrave up close. Because the man was unrelenting. He pursued Mack, even despite the bleeding and the agony. It was as though those feelings of pain were meaningless, a vacant priority. It seemed a force urged the thugs to their feet and in pursuit of their mission.

“Mack, you good?” Daisy asked, tracing her hands along the wire.

“Define ‘good’, because this ain’t it.” Mack retorted, watching as the thugs showed no sign of retreat. Each incapacitation or swing or strike or shot failed. Ammo dwindled, his strength began to wane, but their efforts remained persistent and unfaltering.

Fitz continued to describe the detonator, until Daisy found the device nestled at the bottom of one of the small explosives. “Okay, found it!” Her hands trembled as she carefully took it out, trying her best to ignore the grunts and shrieks and panting of the men caught in Mack’s crossfire.

“Good. There should be a locking mechanism. You’ll have to override it. Just be careful, if you cut the wrong wire before that, the bomb will go off.”

“No pressure then.” Daisy snapped, fumbling with the small set of tools she had snatched on her escape of the Quinjet. Her eyes glanced down towards her watch, noticing the ticking clock fall below six minutes. Sweat began to bead her brow as she began to carefully probe at the locking mechanism, although the steadiness of her hands was interrupted by the beckoning gunfire that filled the air akin to the rising spiralling mist.

Just as a quiet click sounded, Mack’s voice interjected her concentration. “We’ve got a problem. They’ve got backup.” Mack’s statement drew her eyes upwards, and her glancing eyes caught sight of a black van screeching to a halt near the edge of the park. A few armed puppets spilled from the sliding side door, with weapons raised and ready to hail another load of gunfire through the air.

“I’m going to hold them off for as long as I can. No promises.” Mack began to sprint ahead to a better vantage point, trying his best to avoid the onslaught of chaos, as shells of bullets collapsed against the ground and bullets pierced the air. Her eyes watched Mack for a moment, admiring his perseverance through the danger. Bravery glistened from him, shimmering upon him as he navigated through the park-turned-battlefield like a hero.

“Got it yet, Daisy?” Fitz asked, receiving a quiet response from Daisy, whose concentration finally returned to the unlocked-locking mechanism. “The braided wire closest to the circuit board – do you see it?” He waited for confirmation anxiously, waiting with incredibly patience that masked the trembling terror in his voice. “Okay, you need to cut th-”

Daisy’s attention was swiftly brought a grazing bullet that scraped past her arm. Although not a critical wound, Daisy still screamed out in agony, her hands faltering for a moment as she winced against the surging pain that shot through her body at the sensation of being cut by the bullet. “Closest to the circuit board, got it.” She muttered to herself, her hitched breathing escaping in short gasps. “What happened to not cutting wires?” She remarked, grinning with a sense of mockery as she reached into her pocket for the wire cutters. Her attention focused entirely on the wire. Braided, closest to the circuit.

“I meant don’t start cutting random wires.” Fitz retorted defensively.

Daisy could feel her palms pooling in sweat, as her fingers clasped down against the wire cutters. “Fitz, this better work.” She muttered, her voice tight as she spoke. Clamping down on the wire, she squeezed until her knuckles turned white. She winced, squeezed her eyes, feeling a certain doubt that she had failed.

Seconds ticked by like hours.

She re-opened one eye, and then the other, glancing down to find the undetonated bomb with a dangling wire that had been neatly severed. A lifeless cord, hanging in the air. There was a moment of shock that passed over Daisy, interrupted by a relieved and wild burst of laughter as she shouted to Mack and across the comms. “I did it! The bomb’s defused!”

The hail of gunfire stopped. Altogether, it sounded as though the world fell into silence, as the HYDRA thugs paused and glanced around. Most of them were bleeding or limping or in agonising pain, which now took credence over their aggression. They clutched at their wounds, agony seizing them as they did so. Their eyes darted towards the fountain, rigged in explosives, and even though it stood inert and harmless, they knew the danger before them. Whatever fight had driven them before dissolved into a frantic sense of self-preservation. They swivelled around and retreated into a disorganised scramble.

Although the sight was wonderful, Daisy’s sense of victory was short-lived. As she let go of the detonator and dropped the wire cutters into her pockets, she felt a whisper seep into her mind. She rubbed her eyes, as though sand had entrenched itself deep inside, before she heard a soft and insidious sound. It threaded itself into the weaves of her mind and thoughts and consciousness. She winced briefly, before glancing up with widened eyes.

‘Daisy’ The voice was gentle, the sound of a cat purring or the rain pattering against a window. It was commanding and yet, oddly comforting. ‘Come to me. Join me. Ignore the world.’ Everything else around her became a blur, whilst the voice that peppered her thoughts overruled her.

Mack’s voice over the comms was a muffled selection of words. She blinked, her body moving against her will as she felt herself fall behind a sense of self-consciousness. Her head felt heavy, whilst her mind felt light. Connected and aware.

She could feel him. A force. Ancient and powerful and true. His presence filled her like a warm suffocating tide. She felt her pulse quicken in a sense of inviting and comforting embrace, as she felt herself pulled towards him. Her dreamlike turn transformed into a trance-like walk, slowly dragged somewhere else.

“Daisy?” Mack called again, his voice sharper now as he jogged to catch up to her. “Hey! Where are you going?”

“Home.” She responded vaguely.

At that very moment, the air was filled with a powerful tremble. A shockwave hit the air, as fire burst in the distance and a boom beckoned. A detonation, somewhere far across the city. Mack was too busy dealing with Daisy to pinpoint the location, whilst Daisy was too entranced to even notice where she was going.

“May? Bobbi? Are you two alright? I’ve got Daisy in a trance here.”

“All fine here – we defused ours.”

“I told her to return to the Quinjet!” Coulson complained, furious and terrified as his voice was laced with panic at the reveal – busy himself in Avengers’ tower.

“In a trance?” Simmons asked apprehensively. “Perhaps it’s the Inhuman… Kilgrave said it’s spores could control other Inhumans… Mack, follow her. Update us. We’ll pinpoint that other explosive.”

“On it.” Mack confirmed, his heart pounding heavily in his chest.

Chapter Text

Often, heroes understand that there are truths they must not utter and lies they should dress in gold robes of necessity. Phil Coulson is one such hero, who studied the art of deception so that his death could remain the symbol of a martyr. It was above this very city, that the life he once had was cruelly ended, and he was subjected to the shadows.

Now, Phil Coulson must look upon the city once again in the midst of it’s attempted destruction and face the impending terror of a city on a knives’ edge. A bomb threat rooted in the heart of the Avengers’ Tower, weaving himself into the life of another man who’s connection to Tony Stark differed greatly from Coulson’s.

***

Coulson and Rosalind navigated their way through the Avengers’ tower, the labyrinth of offices and rooms and labs and storage units. Coulson acted as a tour guide for the majority of the journey, using his familiarity of the building back when it was Stark Tower. Before he died. Before the Avengers even existed. Before the world went crazy.

Rosalind admired Coulson, her eyes caught in awe as she followed him, her attention snapped by his quiet and abrupt voice. “Bomb’s signal is stronger on the lower levels – but most access routes down are locked. Stark must’ve upgraded security since I was last here. Was even easier having SHIELD backing me back then, rather than backing SHIELD myself.”

“That explains it.” Rosalind remarked, prompting a confused swivel of Coulson’s head as he tried to deduce what she meant with the warm tone to her voice. “You’ve been here before.”

“A long time ago.” Coulson smirked, his face lit up with a hint of nostalgia, recalling those days. They were only four years ago, but the world felt different. It felt calmer and quieter, even in his job of espionage and HYDRA and the oncoming storm of Gods and mutants and heroes in suits. “Different times, different circumstances.”

“Before T.A.H.I.T.I?” She asked curiously, prompting a vague and shy response from Coulson, who seemed reluctant to even acknowledge that she had spoken. His words were more grunts and awkward noises, disguises to hide the experience from even himself. In an attempt to dismiss the nervousness that had been highlighted by his shyness, Coulson cleared his throat – a masterful tactic of deflection that he had trained in the face of questions about his resurrection.

“Lower labs are this way – best we go and check there.” Rosalind raised her eyebrow at first, although didn’t want to pry where she wasn’t wanted. She could see a sense of trauma had formed around the experience, and rightfully so all things considered.

Rounding the corner, a reinforced lab door came into view. Although it looked like any other laboratory that they had passed or seen, the key piece that drew their attention was the harsh lights that glistened against the sleek metal surface. The gleaming reflection of light was the only instance across the tower that had been active – it was the only sign of light in the aging abandoned tower.

Coulson’s wristwatch began to beep faintly, indicating that the signal was powerful. Without a doubt, this sole room which glistened like no other, was their destination. “There we go, found it.” He stated, smiling as he reached for the door. For a moment, as he wrapped his hand around the handle, he considered how easy this city-wide bomb defusal would be – he almost considered the whole ordeal to be a pathetic attempt to cause mayhem.

Although, as Coulson tugged on the metal handle, he felt the door resist all force. In fact, it was in such a protest against Coulson’s attempt to open it, that it didn’t even shudder in its frame. Coulson tried twice more, before plunging his head in front of the window and staring inside.

A man with chiselled features paced inside. A suit jacket swaying with his frantic pacing, whilst his hands scurried through his hair. The man’s face was defined by thick brown eyebrows and a well-sculpted chin, whilst eyes glistened with a concoction of fury and terror. By his side, resting on a counter, was a sleek black box with protruding wires that sat anxiously and popped out like the veins that cross the man’s face.

“Somebody’s in there…” Remarked Coulson, swivelling his head around to Rosalind, who frowned in confusion. She, too, took a look, before spotting the man inside herself. Coulson tapped his ear, the comm crackling for a moment before connecting to the Quinjet. “Fitz, we’ve got somebody here. Anybody on record to be working here today?”

There followed a moment of silence, in which Rosalind and Coulson used to observe the man like he was an entrapped animal in a zoo. Scanning his movements, scrutinising them in their minds and wondering a way towards the ticking bomb that sat beside him.

“Building was signed out of everybody. A few people supposed to be working, but they were all escorted out. Signed out, besides three people.” Fitz explained, accessing the personnel logs.

“You got IDs of the three?” Coulson asked, promptly receiving a confirmation. “Is one of them a handsome guy. Recorded to be about 5’11, maybe 6 foot? Brown hair, white, chiselled face. Handsome guy.”

“You already say that part.” Rosalind whispered, grinning as she leaned in towards Coulson. Coulson chuckled and nodded his head, caught up in some admiration for the man pacing inside. Fitz fell silent again, presumably looking through the IDs. His eyes scanning the photographs for a confirmed connection.

“Quentin Beck. Specialises in holographic tech.” Fitz remarked, impressed as he began reading through the man’s profile that had been stored in the Stark industry ether.

Coulson knocked on the glass, before clamming his hand against a small intercom button besides the door. His eyes glared through the glass, consciously fixated on the pacing man inside. The man froze, his face snapped towards the window, his eyes now gleaming with a different expression. As he approached the glass, Coulson couldn’t determine whether relief or suspicion or desperation had covered his face, but promptly he found the man’s face fill with a performative confidence. “Beck? Beck is it? I’m Director Coulson of SHIELD, I need you to open the door.”

“I can’t.” The man, presumably in part answering that was in fact Beck, stared down towards Coulson with a flicker of pure terror toning his expression.

“Of course you can, Beck. Let us in.”

“You don’t understand, Director. If I let you, or anyone in here, I threaten the city.” Coulson cocked his head to the side as he stared at the man in confusion. He waited for an explanation, but received nothing in return for his patience. He jolted his head to Rosalind with a brief flicker of concern lining his face, before turning back to Beck.

“You’ve got a bomb in there that we could defuse for you.” Rosalind interjected, catching Coulson’s face swelling with confusion. Her eyes met with Beck’s, and she employed the years of training and practice of espionage and trust-building that had led her to her position at the top of the ATCU.

“No – No!” Beck protested furiously, slamming his foot down as he did so. Coulson stared at him, as the man stood just by the window, and watched with a brief flicker of curiosity as the window didn’t fog. “I have to stay in here. You have to go.”

“We don’t have time for this.” Coulson added quickly, feeling a sense of irritation pass over him as he was ignored. For a moment, he considered how years ago he swanned directly into this building, handed Tony Stark some data and began the stepping stones for the Avengers – now he was being refused access to an explosive primed by HYDRA. “Mr Beck, open this door so we can disarm it.”

Once again, Beck refused. His head shook vehemently, violently, vigorously. He was acting heroic in his efforts, his head swinging back to the bomb sitting on the desk. “No. Even if you’re not one of them, they’ll follow you in here. They’ll find a way. Those mind-controlled goons – they won’t stop. I had to hide it here. Make them think I was guarding it in a locked room, it’ll get rid of them for long enough.” Beck’s explanation prompted a short glance shifting between Coulson and Rosalind, who considered Beck’s actions that of a brave and delusional hero.

“Best way to protect that bomb is to let SHIELD defuse it.” Rosalind reassured, cutting the following silence, whilst Coulson cocked his head to the side.

“Mind-controlled? Are we talking propaganda mind control? Or…”

“Like they weren’t thinking for themselves.”

“They?” Coulson pressed, curiously.

“Scientists.”

“Not terrorists?”

“Not usually – but the bomb back there suggests otherwise.” Beck added, his face now staring at Coulson. The window didn’t fog again, even despite standing directly before it. “But I can’t let you in. SHIELD or not. I’m waiting.”

“Waiting for what?”

“The timer. When it gets closer to detonation, I’m going to take it to the top of the tower. Or as high as my clearance can take me. Less damage to the city.” Beck explained, his heroism burning through his voice as he spoke. A sense of self-sacrifice, and conviction that almost appealed to Coulson. Were the situations not as dire and urgent, Coulson was half-tempted to lend an offering hand to Beck as part of SHIELD.

“So, it’s a no-go on unlocking the door?” Coulson added, his mind focusing on the task at hand. Beck shook his head again, before retrieving his ID card from his pocket, waving it as he did. Whilst Coulson watched the flailing ID card, his eyes tried to catch the details of it, they seemed blurry. Although he rationalised it as the speed in which the card was waving and flailing, a part of Coulson wasn’t so convinced, feeling as though it was already blurry as he showed it. Another peculiar detail that he noticed. Another peculiar detail he ignored. “Fitz, I need you to override the lab door.”

“To do that, I’d need to overwrite the security protocols.” Fitz replied over the comms, his voice frilling with some anxiety as he spoke.

“Then do that.”

Fitz scoffed nervously, “It’s Stark tech!” He exclaimed in a panicked response. “Billionaire with some of the most advanced tech in the world. It’s not going to be like an on-switch.”

“Just do what you can, Fitz, and hurry. We don’t know how much time we have left.” Coulson ordered, with patience wearing thin. Silence followed, and Rosalind and Coulson watched as Beck returned to the bomb. He ignored their voices as he stood motionless, fixated on the bomb. Beck slid his hand across the sleek casing, feeling the smoothness of the metal.

“We’ve got active bomb signatures confirmed in each location.  I’ve sent specifics to you all – but there’s more… Something else…” Simmons’ voice now cracked over the comms, and Coulson shot an apprehensive look towards Rosalind. He waited, tapping his fingers to his wrist as he waited in anticipation.

“Simmons, I don’t like that silence. Spit it out.” Coulson replied, breaking the silence of the comms.

“Two explosions have been reported at Ryker’s Island.” She explained, prompting Coulson to run his hands along his face, burying himself in them for a moment. Of course their efforts weren’t enough. Of course their intel was incomplete.

“Ryker’s Island?” Daisy interjected.

“Explosions? As in Prison Break explosions, or-” Coulson’s question was interrupted by a harsh piercing crackling. Coulson winced, pressing his fingers against his temple as though to endure the pain. However, as he did so, he heard the voice of Kilgrave – the man who had infiltrated HYDRA and become the enemy of the entire organisation with his secret scheming and manipulation.

Once the broadcast had ended and they switched to a new frequency, Coulson shot into his role as Director. He stiffened his posture, adjusted his tie and began to pace through the corridor with a newfound sense of terror.

“If New York is under Kilgrave’s threat, we have to act upon it. These bombs are the first course of action, but there’s doubting they’re just a distraction. Our first priority, however, is getting everybody to safety. Daisy, you need to return to the Quinjet.”

“No – not until we’ve defused the bomb.” Daisy refused.

“Coulson’s right, Daisy. If you’re infected, you pose a greater risk than any of us.” May replied.

“You heard the broadcast – it’s laced with Kilgrave’s virus. We are all a risk.” Daisy argued.

“Daisy, this is an order. Get back to the Quinjet – leave Mack to deal with those bombs. Simmons, focus on monitoring those bombs. Fitz, keep working on overriding the Tower’s systems. I’ll reach out to Hill and see if she can confirm what’s happening at Ryker’s.” He tapped his fingers against the comms in his ears, before falling upon Rosalind. There was a smile on her face, a mixture of temptation and concern. Coulson’s authority was appealing, but his frustration worried her, especially in a situation like this. In the city that he… died in before.

Coulson rubbed his hand against her arm, reassuring her for a moment, but also as a means to comfort himself. He spun around towards the window and stared inside at Beck furiously. “We’re going to open this damn door, and if you’re still refusing to let us intervene and stop this mess, then I swear to Thor the God of thunder, that I will make you regret it!” He shouted, seething with anger, before turning to Rosalind. “Too much?” He asked and spun back to the glass after a nod of her head. “Not regret it. But we will detain you!”

Coulson reached into his pocket and paced across the corridor. His fingers promptly searching through his vast array of contacts, all of which appeared as codenames, before falling upon Maria Hills. He sighed deeply, having initially wanting to keep the mission discreet and quiet, but reluctantly it had been drawn into the open by Kilgrave’s manipulative forces against the minds and wills of the city.

The ringing resonated through his ears, and he waited anxiously. His eyes falling onto Rosalind as a source of comfort.

“Director?” Maria replied, practically seconds after the phone had been answered. The gap between the calling and the crackling of her voice was miniscule, but ignored by Coulson’s stressed state. “I assume this isn’t a social call, considering what’s happening in New York.”

“Not even close.” Coulson retorted; his tone was grim with the frustration that coursed through him. “We’re dealing with bombs scattered across the city. I was hoping if you had any intel on what was happening at Rykers.”

“You’re director, Coulson. If anybody had intel it would be you. Not to mention, I’m not at SHIELD anymore, remember. Joined Stark after SHIELD fell.” The mere mention of the day SHIELD fell felt like an unhealed wound, still exposed to the elements of the world.

“Right – which was my next line of questioning. Stark Industries – do you know a man by the name of Quentin Beck?”

“Rings a bell… scientist or engineer I think.” Maria’s voice trailed off as she considered her knowledge of the scientists at Stark industries – of which there was a significant amount.

“He’s locked himself in a lab at Avengers Tower with a bomb that Kilgrave’s men smuggled in. He won’t let us in and he won’t come out.”

Maria’s sharp intake of breath was like static in his ear, before her voice continued. “You’re at the tower now?” Hill asked, her voice shrilled with some sense of panic. “Like, inside it?”

“It’s one of the locations of a bomb threat – yes. But there won’t be a tower if Beck doesn’t get out of there.”

“But you can’t be there. Stark is enroute to the tower- I am enroute. He can’t see you – last thing he needs right now is to be thrown off course.”

“Then get Stark to deal with Ryker’s Island or something. But I need you to help Fitz, he’s overriding the security protocol of the tower.”

“Which won’t be easy–”

“Because Stark increased security after Ultron.” Coulson interrupted, pacing with the rhythm of his steps matching the relentless ticking of the countdown clock in his head. “But you’re on the inside – we need to deal with these bombs as quickly as possible, because the chaos they will cause will just be a smokescreen for Kilgrave to hide behind.”

“Who even is this Kilgrave guy?”

“A long story. A very, long story, because it’s not just Kilgrave involved. So please, help Fitz.”

“I’ll try my best. Keep me updated on Beck.”

“Will do.” As the call ended with a brief dialling beep, Coulson’s eyes shot towards Rosalind. A slither of hope had returned to him, although he felt as though the phone call achieved nothing. All it told him was that Tony Stark was enroute, Beck was almost irrelevant and that the chaos in the city was bordering on unprecedented. Her smile was what kept the slither alive, gleaming in his eyes as she looked towards him.

He approached her, returning back to the window and staring through the window at Beck, who still seemed engrossed with the ticking bomb. In the corner of his eye, he caught Rosalind glancing down to her wrist, her watch ticking incessantly, his attention now drawn to it.

“We’re running out of time.” Rosalind stated, impatience now wearing her thin. “Did she have anything helpful?”

“Nothing helpful.” He replied coldly, his eyes glaring furiously at Beck, who remained unmoved. Literally, frozen in place. Coulson stared impatiently, before glancing back to Rosalind. “Does he seem a little off to you?”

“He’s a scientist wanting to protect a bomb from his mind-controlled colleagues who set it. I think there’s rationale behind his actions.” Coulson’s response to Rosalind’s unphased answer was a gesture towards Beck, who remained frozen. Paralysed, as though a figure that had been paused. As Coulson continued to watch, his mind began to piece together the incredibly sparse information he had available to him. Replaying in his head was Fitz’ statement – Beck worked on holographic technology…

It seemed relevant, until his attention was drawn away by the fuzzy crackling that disoriented him from his ear. Fitz’ Scottish accent beamed directly into his ear, a sense of urgent excitement resonating in the words. “Security protocols deactivated. It seemed the system allowed me access – and whilst I ought to question that, I think it’s best I trust the tech. Now, I’m trying to override the locks, but there’s a secondary encryption layer and I’ve got some trouble on… Mack’s end. I just need some time.”

As quickly as the voice cut into Coulson’s ear, it promptly vanished.

“Time we don’t have.” Coulson sighed, and stared back through the window. His mind returning back to the reveal of Beck’s work on holograms. His mind beginning to race once again as the sound of Rosalind’s watch seeped into his head. The constant ticking. Unphased and persistent. “Beck!” He called back into the room, watching a delay in the man’s response, as he eventually slowly turned his head back to Coulson. “Do me a favour, knock on this window for me.”

“What?” Rosalind and Beck shared the same puzzled response, glaring at Coulson in an attempt to understand the reasoning for the request.

“You heard me. Knock on this window.” His voice didn’t waver as his mind ticked again, trying to create a plausible explanation. “It’s a demand Kilgrave gave his men. I need to know I can trust you. Knock on the glass.” There was hesitation in Beck. Although Coulson’s voice carried conviction, to the point Rosalind questioned if it was true intel he was explaining, Beck seemed to falter. “Come on, prove to me I can trust you.”

“I–” Beck hesitated, not wanting to complete the sentence that almost fell from his tongue had he not stopped it. “I can’t.”

A sly knowing smile spread across Coulson’s face.

“Why not?” Rosalind asked, noticing that the smile that plastered his face and the guilty expression that lined Beck’s. As he began to turn around, she watched as he began to flicker. Like a poor quality of an image, loading poorly on poor internet, Beck and the bomb stood locked inside the room. Shimmering like static on a television screen, edges of his form dissolved and reappeared in uneven bursts.

“Because he’s a hologram.” Coulson felt vindicated at the sight, knowing that the lack of fog on the window was an obvious clue.

“But–” Rosalind stared in disbelief.

“Defused the bomb ages ago.” Beck replied, “Escaped with it and got as far away as possible.”

“Quentin…” Coulson smirked as he watched from the glass. “You- You’re a hero.”

***

When the detonation across the city sent the shockwave across the city, and Mack’s unnerved voice broke through the comms to check on everybody, Coulson felt his heart drop. Resonating in his mind, fuelling the drumbeat of his panicked heart, was the notion that Beck had failed to defuse the bomb. He considered it possible that he had miscalculated, and that courage cost him his life and many others. He worried that Beck’s heroism has burst with a fiery end.

At first, Coulson was worried that the bomb was Quentin. That Beck’s heroism had burst into flames – but the detonation across the city was swiftly addressed by a finetuned frequency finding Coulson. Kilgrave’s voice gloated about a fourth unmentioned bomb. Yet, Coulson’s attention drifted elsewhere. As he stood at the top of the Avenger’s tower, feeling the wind hit the faint scraggles of his hair, his eyes caught sight of a metal bird shooting through the sky.

Shooting towards him was Tony Stark and a tonne of questions to be answered concerning the logistics on Coulson still being alive.

And yet, the momentary panic eased as a new sound pierced his ears. A sharp, static crackle pierced his comms, followed by the distinctive cruelty of Kilgrave’s voice. Smug and malicious, Kilgrave confirmed what Coulson had feared all along: a fourth bomb. Unmentioned, unseen, and now detonated.

As he stood on the topmost edge of Avengers Tower, the wind tugged at the scraggly strands of his thinning hair and biting at the edges of his coat. The city stretched before him, a chaotic display with fading smoke and distant blaring sirens and growing flickers of flame.

Breaking through the clouds was a gleaming metal blur—a bird of steel and fire streaking across the sky, hurtling closer towards him. It wasn’t just an aircraft or a machine; it was Tony Stark, whose trajectory was precise, aimed squarely at his tower.

Stark’s arrival sent a panic surging through his body, realising it was a meeting long overdue. A confrontation teeming with questions which Stark had every right to ask, and Coulson had no easy answers to provide.

To Tony Stark, Phil Coulson was supposed to be dead – a horrible fatality of the battle against Loki, a martyr in memory but no longer a part of the living world. Yet here he stood, flesh and blood.

Chapter Text

When Coulson had discovered that he had been resurrected through the TAHITI. programme, the discovery was instrumentally devastating to his understanding to the world. Add to that, that the time he made the discovery was when Grant Ward betrayed him and his team by almost killing Fitz-Simmons… it was a piece of news that shook his world, and himself to the core.

The world believed he was dead – at least certain figures had to. Because the death of Phil Coulson united the differing views of Tony Stark and Steve Rogers. Their grief for a man who only cared about protecting the planet, whose heart was pure and smile was soft, meant they had a common goal.

Avenging.

When Phil Coulson emerged and followed suit to become the Director of SHIELD, Tony Stark and the rest of his team were none the wiser. There was some advantage to the fact that SHIELD fell in the public eye soon after. That SHIELD operations were kept, both figuratively and literally, underground.

Yet now, in the face of another destructive force, Phil Coulson is not buried beneath the world. Nor is he hiding. He is standing, tall and firm, as the metallic suit of Tony Stark bursts through the sky.

***

“Hey!” The abrupt voice of Tony Stark resonated through the Quinjet’s cabin. Fitz trembled as his eyes shot towards the radio, as the voice broke through clearly. No crackling or fuzzy static danced around the voice. A pure transmission of Stark’s voice. “I don’t remember giving clearance to a Quinjet landing on my building. Want to explain why you’re there and who you are?”

Fitz’ hands trembled as he raced towards the radio. Simmons hovered behind him, resting her hand on the leather seat which he collapsed into. His jittering hands fidgeted for a moment, before hesitating to respond as he was dawned with the realisation that the onus of explanation fell unto him. He leant down, clicked a button and reeled back apprehensively.

“Sorry, Mr Stark, I’m Agent Fitz. I work at SHIELD, but – uh – SHIELD operations are… uh, classified. The Director received clearance from a Happy… from Happy Hogan.” Fitz’ nervousness was audible in the stammering and apprehension. Whilst he knew it was probably best not to hand over a lot of information to Stark, he was also fully aware that the man could probably pry the information from somebody or some database – making his apprehension all the more futile.

“SHIELD fell. And the Director? Who’s the hell is that when he’s at home? Or she. Sure as hell isn’t Fury anymore and Hill works for me, which means some idiot picked it up after it fell?” Stark’s voice was fascinated by the discovery he had made. He hovered midair, staring down towards the helipad which protruded from the top of his building, which shimmered in the sunlight. His eyes darted around the city, taking a moment to take in the destruction, before sighing – another mystery left for another time. He remembered the last time he saw the city like this. He remembered the nuke… the closeness to death… “Sorry, Fitz’, I’ll get back to SHIELD leadership in a minute. Tell me, any clue what the hell this mist is? Because whatever it is, it’s giving the city more than just a bad hair day.”

Simmons leapt forward, eager to answer this question which she had managed to slowly gather an understanding of. “Hi, Mr Stark–”

“Oh, an English girl with a nice voice? Fitz, any more in there?” Stark smirked, interrupting Simmons. Cracking a joke that had flirtation slithering through it was almost second nature to Stark, as uncontrollable as it was impulsive. Simmons blushed, although also felt a sense of comfortability as she struggled to keep on track of the topic.

“We’ve analysed the mist through samples we collected. It’s Terrigen mist – a gas that is released when a Terrigen crystal is destroyed. It turns people with a specific gene into Inhumans – people with powers. However, it’s been altered with spores and a viral compound, confirming Kilgrave’s claims. It seems to be engineered for mind control.”

“And this Kilgrave, encountered him before?” Stark wondered, hoping to find more information about the mysterious villain who seemed to appear from nowhere. Now, scanning the city and seeing smoke rise from the destroyed bridge and Ryker’s island, his attention was returned to a flashback. Although the destruction was different, it still reminded him of last time. A memory he was beginning to forget, with the devastation of Sokovia having taken his attention away.

“Yes.” Simmons’ voice quickened as she replied, sighing briefly before she began. “He was experimented on as a child, some attempt to cure a neurological disease he had. But the process granted him powers of mind control. Before this, he spent most of his time obsessing over a woman called Jessica Jones. He abducted her, twice. Second time they had a child – she broke free of the mind control eventually, but has gone looking for the child, sent into HYDRA’s watch.”

Stark exhaled heavily, annoyed and frustrated at the list of details of a dangerous threat he’d never heard of before. “Right. HYDRA, mind control gas and a psychopath obsessed with his ex. Just another day at the office. Anything else I ought to know before this city goes to shit?”

Fitz quietly and nervously replied, “He helped HYDRA procure an ancient alien from an… another world where it was banished.”

“Perfect – we’re making this Lovecraftian too? Well- wait,” Stark’s voice quietened. Unbeknownst to Fitz and Simmons, who stood patiently in silence, Stark’s HUD had drawn his awareness to a figure stood upon the helipad. A bald man, with a dark suit and a familiar doe-eyed expression written across his face. As Stark asked Friday to zoom in, he felt his heart sink. His face had hardened and stiffened since the last time Stark had seen him… what felt to be a lifetime ago. Stark’s voice broke through the radio once more, breaking slightly as Stark tried to make sense of what he saw. “That Director. Not Fury. Not Hill. Don’t tell me it’s Coulson.”

Frozen at the mere mention of Coulson’s name, Fitz and Simmons stared at each other anxiously Their eyes shot backwards, as they heard the clopping Rosalind’s shoes against the metal of the cabin. As Fitz hovered his hand over the radio controls with a dry throat struggling to find the words, he spotted Coulson standing in the distance. Exposed to the natural elements of the world – exposed to the sight of Tony Stark. Simmons stammered in her reply to Stark, her face pale and mind racing to de-escalate the situation.

“Yes. But we can’t let this distr–”

“Hold it, English.” Stark interrupted in a snap of angered disbelief. His eyes were fixed on Coulson, observing the various details of the man’s face. Trying to find some aspect of the situation to doubt. Perhaps, he wondered, the mist had hallucinogenic affects. That would explain this. But it didn’t. The evidence stood before him, in the flesh, in his building. “Unless we’re dealing with the ghost of Phil Coulson, someone has a lot of explaining to do.” There was a blunt ending to the transmission, as Stark shot back down towards the helipad.

*

Stark landed with a graceful thud, as the hissing of the jets of his suit fizzled into quiet whispers. The creaking and clanking and clinging of metal resonated in the air, signalling each movement made by Stark, who marched towards Coulson. Despite the dismay and destruction that filtered the world around him, Stark’s attention fixated on this one man. Glimmering in the morning sunlight, Stark’s red and gold suit came to an abrupt halt, not too far from Coulson.

The helmet lifted, revealing an enraged expression forcing every part of Stark’s face to fizzle with fury. His glare was powerful, managing to say a million words effortlessly – most of which were exclaimed profanities of anger.

“Hello Tony.” Coulson nodded, anxious as to what to say. “It’s been a while.”

“Are you serious?” Stark had no time for introductions, or pleasantries. His voice bridled with the same rage that tugged at his face. “Of course it’s been a while – You were dead. As in I-signed-the-damn-flowers dead. As in, ‘let’s have a memorial with his Captain America cards on display’ dead. As in, I shed a tear at your damn funeral dead. We avenged you. We mourned you, Coulson–Sorry, Director.” There was bitterness in the words that spewed from Stark’s mouth. “How’d they do it? Because I assume it wasn’t Fury duct taping you back together.”

“It’s complicated.” Coulson sighed, glancing to the Quinjet and spotting Rosalind as a source of hope for him. Fitz and Simmons caught his eye too, watching nervously.

“Damn right it’s complicated. Bringing people back to life isn’t easy. Usually smart people just create holograms or AIs to remember people. So, whatever happened with you is way more than ‘complicated’. And unless it was as easy as you just faking your death, then I would love to hear this story.”

“I died.” Coulson stated plainly and firmly. There was now a response in Coulson that seemed angry at Stark’s angry bitterness. A firmness held his voice in defence of himself, as he leant slightly closer and stared directly towards him. “I didn’t fake my death. I died. There was a project called TAHITI – it was created in case an Avenger was wounded. Mortally wounded. It was a last resort, to save you from a critical injury.” There was so much to explain, so many details that made his trip back to life worse than what it sounded. “But I didn’t ask for it – and I didn’t want for it.”

There was a part of Stark that was caught off guard by the sincerity and honesty of Coulson’s words. Glistening in his eyes was a sense of vulnerability and truthfulness – as though admitting that the death he first had was worth it.

Shaking off that vulnerability, feeling fury still bristling in his heart, Stark stared at Coulson. “So, what. Fury brought you back and you decided to keep it a secret? From everyone. From me?”

“It wasn’t my decision to make. Fury thought it best. SHIELD was fragile and my death brought people together. Nobody would have trusted SHIELD if they knew about it’s power to bring back the dead.” Coulson matched the anger, furious not to almost be held under scrutiny of actions he had no control over so many years ago. “Do we have to do this now, Tony. The city is being attacked by a man who can make people do anything he wants, with an ancient alien who can control people with superpowers. Not to mention, one of my agents has just been put in a trance and three bombs have already gone off.”

Stark shook his head in frustration, his eyes glancing to the city’s skyline. “This is insane. Even by my standards. But,” Stark pointed his finger towards Coulson, the creaking metal shimmering as it basked in sunlight. “After this is over, we’re having a real conversation. No secrets. No half-truths. No confidential classified red tape. Got it?”

“Got it.” Coulson agreed, smiling slightly as he found some source of comfort in Stark’s demeanour.

“I’ve got Sam and Rhodey at Rhyker’s Island, dealing with the prison riots there. The others are on their way.” Stark explained, before his eyes glanced back to the Quinjet. “We’re better if we work together Coulson – so it’s best you introduce me to English and her boyfriend.” He remarked nodding his head towards the Quinjet, which bathed beneath the morning skyline.

Coulson and Stark urgently headed towards the Quinjet, with the clopping sounds of Coulson’s leather shoes being completely drowned out by the heavy metal clanking of Stark’s metal suit and the metallic flooring of the cabin. Fitz, Simmons and Rosalind were temporarily star-struck. Before them was a hero, an Avenger and a billionaire. A man who had saved the world and featured in comic books. He was Iron Man.

“Stark, meet FitzSimmons.” Coulson gestured towards the pair, who gawped and bristled with a slither of restrained excitement, taking a moment away from the assignments they had both taken up.

Fitz stammered nervously, wandering forward and holding out his hand to the Iron Man suit. “I’m Fitz – we- we spoke over the, uh, radio. Big fan. You’re a genius. Your security protocols were incredibly difficult to get through.” Stark shook Fitz’ hand, with the sensation of the thick metallic hand sending an exhillerated sense of excitement down Fitz’ spine.

“Save the autographs for later. Security protocols?” Stark raised his eyebrow suspiciously, staring at Fitz.

The mere two worded question jolted Fitz into a slight frenzy, only calmed by Rosalind’s swift intervention. Her hand shot forward as she interrupted, “Rosalind Price. Formerly ATCU director. Fitz needed to override the building’s security protocol to unlock a door that had been locked by a Quentin Beck, who was protecting one of the bombs.” Another raised eyebrow emerged from Stark’s face, but the question was already hanging in the air with no need of being verbalised. “To cut a long story short, Beck is safe and the bomb didn’t go off.” She smiled politely, cutting off the lengthy explanation in favour of a quicker route.

“Fair enough. Look, I was weaning off the whole Iron Man thing. Gave it up, handed the Avengers facility to Rogers and retired. But if this is threatening the city the way you think it is, then I have to get involved. Which doesn’t stand to look good. I need this over and done with so I can get back to a peaceful quiet life of being the man I was before I got in this thing. Strategy – what is it?”

Simmons glanced, noticing an apprehensive silence. Nobody had yet considered what was next. SHIELD was drawn into the events of the city in an effort to mitigate explosives, but now the threat was bigger. A vaster scope and a bigger risk.

“We’re still trying to track down Kilgrave’s whereabouts. In a few minutes, Kilgrave has threatened armed robberies in the city – but we’ve had three of those stopped by… a guy in a hoodie? So, we have no idea what will happen there. Then there’s the stockbrokers he threatened, but our theory places them in Wall Street. The mist is beginning to dissipate, but the lockdown on most of the subway means we have no idea how much danger is still down there. Ryker’s island is being dealt with, and the bomb at the Queensboro bridge is being dealt with.”

“Wait, you said this mist… you said it did something. Before the whole mind control part.” Stark step forward, his suit creaking with the movement, whilst a slight clank of the floor adjusted to the weight. As he spoke, his ears listening to his own movement, he listened to the soft humming of the Quinjet’s vibrations, whilst his eyes darted towards the small hologram of New York that hovered in front of Simmons.

“Terrigen?” Coulson interjected swiftly, a prompting Stark to jolt around to him. With a faint sense of a nod in reply, Coulson continued. He pondered for a moment how he could manage to condense his experiences in the past year into one swift explanation sighing quietly as he tilted his head. “Terrigen activates an Inhuman gene. Gives people with that gene, Inhuman abilities.”

“And for those of us still confused about how Banner became the Hulk?” Stark wondered, raising his eyebrows. He’s never heard these terms of Terrigen or Inhuman before, leaving him stumped amidst the various discussions taking place. His voice tinged with a sense of sarcasm and mockery in response to the unusual terms.

Simmons cleared her throat, before clarifying the terms. “Inhumans are just people with powers. Nothing different to you or I, until they are exposed to Terrigen crystals. At which point they can gain powers. Random abilities. Could be laser eyes, or flight, or mind reading, or a third arm. But they can be controlled by the creature that Kilgrave saved from the alien planet.”

“Right – the Lovecraft aspect.” Stark muttered his gaze narrowing as he tried to make sense of the situation. “So, this… creature. He’s con–”

There was a fuzzing of the radio, as a man’s voice broke through. Whilst the team recognised Mack’s voice within an instant, Stark stared confused. Although he hated being interrupted, he thought it best to listen. Temporarily he had placed himself in the forefront of SHIELD’s secret band of team, which meant he ought to pay attention to intel.

“Daisy, and a crap tonne of other… I’m gonna assume Inhumans… have all headed towards Grand Central. They’re guarding the doors.” Mack reported, a sense of panic in his tone, which sounded as though he was panting.

“Is that an imperial or metric tonne?” Stark declared himself present with a slight quip, that only brought a slither of a smile to him. His dry voice carried enough sarcasm to cut the tension, but his smile flickered briefly across his face, barely reaching his eyes as he caught uncomfortable looks from the others.

“Who is that? I recognise that–” Mack’s confusion was clear, caught off guard as he cocked his head aside at the familiarity.

“I should hope so, you landed on my building.” Remarked Stark, gleaming with a teasing smirk. His face faded from the gleaming smirk, as his brain began to buzz. Strategy fell into place, before he straightened himself and glanced back to Coulson. “Now, look, the New Avengers are going to swoop in to help you all out. But we’re going to need coordination if we want to clean up this mess. Romanoff can handle the stockbrokers – trust me, I’ve watched her deal with men like that. I’ll put Wanda and Vision on Mist duty.”

“And Rogers?” Coulson grinned, thinking of the idea of watching Captain America fighting at his side once again. In fact, his eyes shimmered with the very thought. Nostalgia gleaming in his mind.

“Grand Central. He’ll get there faster than most – and if Inhumans are such a threat, there’s no one better to handle it than our very own Super Soldier.”

“I’ll have Bobbi and May back them up.” Coulson added, grinning at the thought. “Their experience will keep things controlled while Rogers figures out what happens on the ground.”

“Which leaves you two.” Rosalind remarked, her eyes glancing towards the two men, whose faces gleamed with thrilling excitement. “What will you do?”

There was a silence, a lingering thought. With their teams dispersed across the known threats, they had no exact answer. Instead, their eyes shifted to one another in a hope of an answer, only interrupted by the sharp urgency of a Scottish accent. A proud and enthusiastic sound burst from Fitz, who leapt to his feet and raced across towards the pair.

“Kilgrave’s broadcast originates from City Hall. It’s bouncing off several transmission units, but it’s source is there. Without a doubt.” He confirmed, catching a moment of doubt emerge within Stark’s eyes. Now Fitz galcned into Stark’s calculating eyes, as they considered the very words that he had uttered.

“City hall?” Stark repeated, placing his heavy metal hand on Fitz’ shoulder. A glimmer of doubt raised, as if challenging Fitz.

“Aye.” He was relentless in his thoughts, wanting nothing more than to prove himself to the man who had managed to build technology slightly beyond him. “Which aligns with reports about the Mayor declaring a state of emergency before the attack even happened. But I’ve tracked down the signals’ source, triple checked it. Daisy would’ve probably been better at hacking it – probably would’ve found him quicker. But oh well – that’s where he is.”

“Scot, when this is all done, I might just have to poach you.”

Fitz scoffed, chuckled gently at the mere notion, before bearing a polite smile. “No offence Mr Stark, as big a fan as I am of your genius, I have everything I have already.” His eyes flitted between Coulson and Simmons – both of whom blushed equally. Stark nodded his head, grinning at the clear affection Fitz and Simmons had.

“We’ll see. Coulson and I will head to City Hall.” Stark stated, a newfound determination filled his mind despite his previous sense of retirement. “Director, I hope you’re not afraid of heights.”

***