He slid the final piece of the reassembled gun into place, breathed in the bracing scents of gunmetal and death. Convince him to leave the city. For most people, the prospect of convincing Matt Murdock, the Daredevil himself, to leave Hell’s Kitchen would seem an insurmountable challenge. But Foggy knew exactly what to say. He had always known, ever since Matt came roaring back into his life that first day in undergrad, precisely what it would take for him to make Matt leave and never come back.
He had rehearsed this conversation a thousand times, a thousand ways, the scenario shifting constantly to reflect the varied entailments of their conjoined lives, but the basic content, the core of the matter, always remained constant. And every scenario, every single one, ended with Matt leaving. Since finding out about Daredevil, Foggy had also begun to have difficulty imagining a scenario in which Matt wouldn’t kill Foggy on his way out. Most nights, that prospect terrified him into sleepless, silent distress.
Tonight? He was planning on it.
The roof-access door opened quietly, and Foggy’s mind slipped into high gear.
Daredevil stalked down the stairs. He was limping slightly, but no more than usual. That was good—Foggy needed him to be all there tonight.
“Foggy?” he asked upon reaching the foot of the stairs. “What’s wrong?” He tilted his head, no doubt scenting the metallic air. “And why do you have a gun?”
“Matt,” Foggy replied, “I haven’t been being entirely honest with you. I think that we should talk.”
Matt hesitated a moment, clearly unnerved. Then he slinked over to the couch opposite Foggy’s chair, sitting down tense on its edge.
Foggy took a deep breath, squared his jaw—and sighed. “For God’s sake, take off that mask. I need to talk to you, Matt, not him.”
Matt apologized and dutifully slipped off his cowl. Uncovered, his face telegraphed his emotions, clear as day in the eerie half-light: unease, confusion, curiosity. Fear.
Maybe it would have been better if he’d kept the mask on.
Foggy breathed in again, and started talking before he could lose his nerve. “I’ve told you before that my mother wanted me to be a butcher. That was the truth. But you’ve never met my mother, so you couldn’t possibly have understood what she actually meant when she said that.” Foggy could already feel cold sweat beading on his back, and this was the least of the things he had to say tonight. He anchored himself on the gun in his hand, squeezing the handle with bruising force, and plunged onwards. “My mother’s name is Rosalind—Rosalind Sharpe.”
Matt inhaled sharply. “You’re—you’re with the Irish? The mob?”
Foggy’s mouth twisted ruefully. “Born and raised. When your mom’s the woman who runs half of the operation, it’s hard to avoid getting sucked into the family business. My older siblings were groomed for management positions, off the street, as safe as you can get in this business. But me? My mom wanted me to be a butcher.” The gun in his hand was warm. “An assassin.”
He heard Matt shift on the couch, but he kept his eyes trained out the window, watching a cherry blossom infinitely travel its looping path down the side of the neighboring building. “They—they have a particular way of training butchers. They always start them young: young enough that they don’t attract attention from the police, and young enough that they don’t know the meaning of what they’re doing.” Foggy turns the gun over in his hands. “I was eight when I shot a gun for the first time. I was nine the first time I killed a man.” And, thank God, the last.
“Oh God, Foggy—“
“I’m not finished,” Foggy interrupted him. He was only halfway there; he couldn’t afford to stop now. “I didn’t understand what he had done—they explained it to me, but all I made out was that he didn’t do what he was told, and that what I was going to do to him was what happened when people don’t do as they’re told. I didn’t need any more than that, really. He never saw it coming until I had the gun in his face. He had just enough time for the fear to come into his eyes. Or maybe he knew it was coming, and the fear had been there long before I was. Either way, that fear was all I saw in his eyes when they closed.” Foggy paused and considered his next words. This was the most important part, the one that would seal his fate and Matt’s: the execution was paramount. “It wasn’t until his kid showed up that I started to realize what I had done. That I had taken away a life. A person.” He swallowed. “Someone’s father.”
“Foggy…” Matt’s voice said, thick with tears.
Foggy could feel tears gathering behind his own eyelids now. “The kid was my age—“
Re: FILL: "Mercy" (2/3)
He slid the final piece of the reassembled gun into place, breathed in the bracing scents of gunmetal and death. Convince him to leave the city. For most people, the prospect of convincing Matt Murdock, the Daredevil himself, to leave Hell’s Kitchen would seem an insurmountable challenge. But Foggy knew exactly what to say. He had always known, ever since Matt came roaring back into his life that first day in undergrad, precisely what it would take for him to make Matt leave and never come back.
He had rehearsed this conversation a thousand times, a thousand ways, the scenario shifting constantly to reflect the varied entailments of their conjoined lives, but the basic content, the core of the matter, always remained constant. And every scenario, every single one, ended with Matt leaving. Since finding out about Daredevil, Foggy had also begun to have difficulty imagining a scenario in which Matt wouldn’t kill Foggy on his way out. Most nights, that prospect terrified him into sleepless, silent distress.
Tonight? He was planning on it.
The roof-access door opened quietly, and Foggy’s mind slipped into high gear.
Daredevil stalked down the stairs. He was limping slightly, but no more than usual. That was good—Foggy needed him to be all there tonight.
“Foggy?” he asked upon reaching the foot of the stairs. “What’s wrong?” He tilted his head, no doubt scenting the metallic air. “And why do you have a gun?”
“Matt,” Foggy replied, “I haven’t been being entirely honest with you. I think that we should talk.”
Matt hesitated a moment, clearly unnerved. Then he slinked over to the couch opposite Foggy’s chair, sitting down tense on its edge.
Foggy took a deep breath, squared his jaw—and sighed. “For God’s sake, take off that mask. I need to talk to you, Matt, not him.”
Matt apologized and dutifully slipped off his cowl. Uncovered, his face telegraphed his emotions, clear as day in the eerie half-light: unease, confusion, curiosity. Fear.
Maybe it would have been better if he’d kept the mask on.
Foggy breathed in again, and started talking before he could lose his nerve. “I’ve told you before that my mother wanted me to be a butcher. That was the truth. But you’ve never met my mother, so you couldn’t possibly have understood what she actually meant when she said that.” Foggy could already feel cold sweat beading on his back, and this was the least of the things he had to say tonight. He anchored himself on the gun in his hand, squeezing the handle with bruising force, and plunged onwards. “My mother’s name is Rosalind—Rosalind Sharpe.”
Matt inhaled sharply. “You’re—you’re with the Irish? The mob?”
Foggy’s mouth twisted ruefully. “Born and raised. When your mom’s the woman who runs half of the operation, it’s hard to avoid getting sucked into the family business. My older siblings were groomed for management positions, off the street, as safe as you can get in this business. But me? My mom wanted me to be a butcher.” The gun in his hand was warm. “An assassin.”
He heard Matt shift on the couch, but he kept his eyes trained out the window, watching a cherry blossom infinitely travel its looping path down the side of the neighboring building. “They—they have a particular way of training butchers. They always start them young: young enough that they don’t attract attention from the police, and young enough that they don’t know the meaning of what they’re doing.” Foggy turns the gun over in his hands. “I was eight when I shot a gun for the first time. I was nine the first time I killed a man.” And, thank God, the last.
“Oh God, Foggy—“
“I’m not finished,” Foggy interrupted him. He was only halfway there; he couldn’t afford to stop now. “I didn’t understand what he had done—they explained it to me, but all I made out was that he didn’t do what he was told, and that what I was going to do to him was what happened when people don’t do as they’re told. I didn’t need any more than that, really. He never saw it coming until I had the gun in his face. He had just enough time for the fear to come into his eyes. Or maybe he knew it was coming, and the fear had been there long before I was. Either way, that fear was all I saw in his eyes when they closed.” Foggy paused and considered his next words. This was the most important part, the one that would seal his fate and Matt’s: the execution was paramount. “It wasn’t until his kid showed up that I started to realize what I had done. That I had taken away a life. A person.” He swallowed. “Someone’s father.”
“Foggy…” Matt’s voice said, thick with tears.
Foggy could feel tears gathering behind his own eyelids now. “The kid was my age—“
“Foggy, please, don’t—“
“—and blind.”