The next morning, they make their way downtown, Matt on Foggy’s elbow. The air burns, and it’s not just Matt’s senses on high alert, not just the knowledge that he’s tasting the char and rot of human bodies on the breeze. Foggy’s breaths are labored, even through the dust masks that he had pulled from under his bed. But he’s valiantly keeping up a running commentary, and Matt loves him a bit for the effort. “The visibility is shot to hell, like those photos you see of Beijing. Everything’s just…gray. And covered in this dust. Cancer-dust, probably, so try to keep the breathing to a minimum, yeah?”
“I’ll do what I can,” he chuckles humorlessly. “What can you see?” It’s not just an act. The air is acrid and ashy, even thicker than what he remembers from 9/11, and it throws off his long-distance perception even worse than snow.
Foggy leans forward a bit. “There’s some orange tape across the street a few blocks down. Lots of people in a line. I think they’re signing in volunteers. You ready to go for it? We’ve come this far…”
Matt hasn’t properly attended church in years, but he spent the long hours of last night with his dad’s rosary woven through his fingers. He thumbs at it now where it’s buried in his pocket. He tugs Foggy to the right. “I’ve got a different idea.”
“How different are we talking, here? Crazy Murdock different?”
“Foggy, I need…I need to know if my home still exists. My school. My dad’s gym. We’re local boys. We know this turf better than anyone. Let’s just…go. Check out how things are. You said things aren’t so beat up over here, that those things were mostly on the east side? If we branch off from the main effort, we might be able to find someone and then go get them help.”
“How do you manage to make ‘crazy Murdock different’ sound reasonable?” Foggy groans. “Matt, what if there’s one of those things still lurking around? Don’t we want to be by the guys with guns if that happens?”
It’s been a while since Matt threw a good punch, but oh, would he love for one of the attackers to try to get within arm’s reach of him. Whatever they were, these things that thought they could lay waste to his city… His blood fizzes at the thought of action, and it feels good. “Foggy, what if that beam starts up again? What if they nuke the whole island?”
“You sure know how to make a guy feel safe and sound. Jesus.”
“All of this is so far out of our control right now, I don’t think that ‘safe’ even factors into it. We can only do what we need to do, and what I need is to know is that the gym on 49th between 9th and 10th is still there.”
“And I guess what I need is to make sure you don’t trip on a building or get eaten by a robot. There’s another line of orange tape coming up – knee height, easy to step over. I don’t see anyone else here. You ready to go rogue?”
They walk quickly and quietly after that, Foggy commenting on the damage under his breath. Things aren’t so bad on this side of town – some smashed up roofs, some busted windows, nothing too catastrophic – but Matt thinks he hears someone’s muffled gasping a few blocks away. From the same place echoes a slow drip of water. A burst pipe? A collapsed water tower? Either way, it signals distress. If only he can figure out how to steer Foggy in the right direction…
“Shit,” Foggy mutters, “there’s someone coming towards us, and I don’t think he’s our welcoming committee. Orange vest over a cop uniform. Ugly scowl. He’s not happy.”
“Hey,” the policeman shouts, crunching over shards of glass, “this area is restricted. No gawkers. You wanna see what’s happening, go home and Google it like everyone else. We don’t have the time to babysit asshole disaster tourists.”
Matt tugs down his mask, taps his cane against the pavement, and flashes his go-to mollifying smile. “Not much chance of gawking from me.”
“We’re here to help,” Foggy says. “Whatever you need.”
The officer hisses out a hard breath through his teeth. “I don’t know what the hell you’re thinking, kid, I need you to get your cripple friend out of a war zone.” Matt’s hands tighten on his cane and Foggy gasps beside him. “Look, I ain’t here to be PC. I’m here to save lives. If you really want to do the same, you can go donate blood or money or whatever. Don’t get in the way, and don’t get killed.”
“This is our home!” Foggy cries out.
“Not right now, it’s not. You live here? Take your buddy and go crash with a friend. You don’t want to be around this stuff. This isn’t the time to play at being a hero. Leave that for the professionals.”
Matt doesn’t miss that the man has never spoken to him.
He might be out of practice, and he might be choking on chemical smog, but he could show this asshole just who he was dismissing. A quick roll to knock him off his feet and Matt could outrun and outwit him without breaking a sweat. And then he could sprint east, east to where he was needed, to where innocent people were even now fighting for their dying breaths…
But for Foggy’s warm presence at his side, arguing with the cop on his behalf. Each sure step would expose him, shattering the gentle, fragile, intellectual life that he had fought so hard for.
The impulse to help. The impulse to hide.
“He’s right, Foggy,” Matt finally growls, cutting off the growing fight. “We don’t want to be around…this.”
“Matt? What about your dad’s gym?”
“I’m sure it’s fine. Let’s get out of here.”
“Dick,” Foggy mutters at the cop, but doesn’t say much after that.
On the way home, they pass by a booth handing out tote bags filled with water bottles, spare batteries, dust masks, plastic lab goggles… Foggy immediately tears into the granola bar inside, his stomach rumbling in anticipation. Matt’s throat burns too much to think of food.
“Hey,” he asks, running his hands over the image screen-printed on the side of the bag. “What’s this picture? A logo?”
“Yeah, Stark Industries.”
Stark. The same Tony Stark whose building was at the epicenter of the attack. “Is it on all the bags?”
“Think so. The table was under a Stark-branded tent. Whatever Stark has to do with all this, looks like he took the time to park the flying suit and tell his underlings to go buy some batteries. Why?”
Matt’s right hand clenches around his cane. He’s careful to keep his left arm relaxed around Foggy’s elbow. “Oh, no reason. Just curious who to thank. For the batteries. It’s good to see that Stark hasn’t forgotten about us little people stuck on the ground.”
There are a few lessons to be learned from this (because everything in life comes with lessons):
He wasn’t ready when the moment came, and others paid the price for his negligence. He could not be caught unawares again.
On the battlefield, he was useless when he had to keep up the façade of being normal. War had come, and he couldn’t fight it with his friend by his side. To do so would mean losing one, or the other, or both.
And rich men who flew above the city in magic suits while fighting mysterious foes would only bring grief on those below. War might have burst through the sky, but it would be fought on the streets.
So that night, as soon as Foggy is snoring, Matt pulls on a hoodie, and his new dust mask and goggles (courtesy of Tony Stark’s uneasy conscience) and slips out into the dark. This time, no more lives will be lost to his carelessness. He is prepared, and he is alone.
Re: FILL 4/?: "The Incident"? Is that what we're calling it now?
“I’ll do what I can,” he chuckles humorlessly. “What can you see?” It’s not just an act. The air is acrid and ashy, even thicker than what he remembers from 9/11, and it throws off his long-distance perception even worse than snow.
Foggy leans forward a bit. “There’s some orange tape across the street a few blocks down. Lots of people in a line. I think they’re signing in volunteers. You ready to go for it? We’ve come this far…”
Matt hasn’t properly attended church in years, but he spent the long hours of last night with his dad’s rosary woven through his fingers. He thumbs at it now where it’s buried in his pocket. He tugs Foggy to the right. “I’ve got a different idea.”
“How different are we talking, here? Crazy Murdock different?”
“Foggy, I need…I need to know if my home still exists. My school. My dad’s gym. We’re local boys. We know this turf better than anyone. Let’s just…go. Check out how things are. You said things aren’t so beat up over here, that those things were mostly on the east side? If we branch off from the main effort, we might be able to find someone and then go get them help.”
“How do you manage to make ‘crazy Murdock different’ sound reasonable?” Foggy groans. “Matt, what if there’s one of those things still lurking around? Don’t we want to be by the guys with guns if that happens?”
It’s been a while since Matt threw a good punch, but oh, would he love for one of the attackers to try to get within arm’s reach of him. Whatever they were, these things that thought they could lay waste to his city… His blood fizzes at the thought of action, and it feels good. “Foggy, what if that beam starts up again? What if they nuke the whole island?”
“You sure know how to make a guy feel safe and sound. Jesus.”
“All of this is so far out of our control right now, I don’t think that ‘safe’ even factors into it. We can only do what we need to do, and what I need is to know is that the gym on 49th between 9th and 10th is still there.”
“And I guess what I need is to make sure you don’t trip on a building or get eaten by a robot. There’s another line of orange tape coming up – knee height, easy to step over. I don’t see anyone else here. You ready to go rogue?”
They walk quickly and quietly after that, Foggy commenting on the damage under his breath. Things aren’t so bad on this side of town – some smashed up roofs, some busted windows, nothing too catastrophic – but Matt thinks he hears someone’s muffled gasping a few blocks away. From the same place echoes a slow drip of water. A burst pipe? A collapsed water tower? Either way, it signals distress. If only he can figure out how to steer Foggy in the right direction…
“Shit,” Foggy mutters, “there’s someone coming towards us, and I don’t think he’s our welcoming committee. Orange vest over a cop uniform. Ugly scowl. He’s not happy.”
“Hey,” the policeman shouts, crunching over shards of glass, “this area is restricted. No gawkers. You wanna see what’s happening, go home and Google it like everyone else. We don’t have the time to babysit asshole disaster tourists.”
Matt tugs down his mask, taps his cane against the pavement, and flashes his go-to mollifying smile. “Not much chance of gawking from me.”
“We’re here to help,” Foggy says. “Whatever you need.”
The officer hisses out a hard breath through his teeth. “I don’t know what the hell you’re thinking, kid, I need you to get your cripple friend out of a war zone.” Matt’s hands tighten on his cane and Foggy gasps beside him. “Look, I ain’t here to be PC. I’m here to save lives. If you really want to do the same, you can go donate blood or money or whatever. Don’t get in the way, and don’t get killed.”
“This is our home!” Foggy cries out.
“Not right now, it’s not. You live here? Take your buddy and go crash with a friend. You don’t want to be around this stuff. This isn’t the time to play at being a hero. Leave that for the professionals.”
Matt doesn’t miss that the man has never spoken to him.
He might be out of practice, and he might be choking on chemical smog, but he could show this asshole just who he was dismissing. A quick roll to knock him off his feet and Matt could outrun and outwit him without breaking a sweat. And then he could sprint east, east to where he was needed, to where innocent people were even now fighting for their dying breaths…
But for Foggy’s warm presence at his side, arguing with the cop on his behalf. Each sure step would expose him, shattering the gentle, fragile, intellectual life that he had fought so hard for.
The impulse to help. The impulse to hide.
“He’s right, Foggy,” Matt finally growls, cutting off the growing fight. “We don’t want to be around…this.”
“Matt? What about your dad’s gym?”
“I’m sure it’s fine. Let’s get out of here.”
“Dick,” Foggy mutters at the cop, but doesn’t say much after that.
On the way home, they pass by a booth handing out tote bags filled with water bottles, spare batteries, dust masks, plastic lab goggles… Foggy immediately tears into the granola bar inside, his stomach rumbling in anticipation. Matt’s throat burns too much to think of food.
“Hey,” he asks, running his hands over the image screen-printed on the side of the bag. “What’s this picture? A logo?”
“Yeah, Stark Industries.”
Stark. The same Tony Stark whose building was at the epicenter of the attack. “Is it on all the bags?”
“Think so. The table was under a Stark-branded tent. Whatever Stark has to do with all this, looks like he took the time to park the flying suit and tell his underlings to go buy some batteries. Why?”
Matt’s right hand clenches around his cane. He’s careful to keep his left arm relaxed around Foggy’s elbow. “Oh, no reason. Just curious who to thank. For the batteries. It’s good to see that Stark hasn’t forgotten about us little people stuck on the ground.”
There are a few lessons to be learned from this (because everything in life comes with lessons):
He wasn’t ready when the moment came, and others paid the price for his negligence. He could not be caught unawares again.
On the battlefield, he was useless when he had to keep up the façade of being normal. War had come, and he couldn’t fight it with his friend by his side. To do so would mean losing one, or the other, or both.
And rich men who flew above the city in magic suits while fighting mysterious foes would only bring grief on those below. War might have burst through the sky, but it would be fought on the streets.
So that night, as soon as Foggy is snoring, Matt pulls on a hoodie, and his new dust mask and goggles (courtesy of Tony Stark’s uneasy conscience) and slips out into the dark. This time, no more lives will be lost to his carelessness. He is prepared, and he is alone.