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daredevilkink2015-06-22 07:24 pm
ddk_mod) wrote in daredevilkink2015-06-22 07:24 pm
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Prompt Post #4
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"The Incident"? Is that what we're calling it now?
(Anonymous) 2015-06-26 05:07 am (UTC)(link)+1 for the story starting in Josie's with patrons swapping their experiences before going into Matt flashbacks
+10 for Matt's first reaction to an alien invasion being ditch the cane and glasses and help evacuate the area - tracking heartbeats to make sure alleys and buildings are clear, tackling people out of the way of falling debris and lasers, maybe even pretending to be a volunteer firefighter or something so he can stay in the disaster area and the cops are desperate so no one even looks at him twice.
(+100 for Matt and Foggy showing up a week or two later to help in the aftermath and being kindly turned away because Matt's blind and there's nothing they can do to help anyway - because irony and casual ablism are apparently my weaknesses)
Basically, gimme flashbacks to Matt's first "heroic" outing and bitter Matt quietly seething about the Avengers leaving normal people to pick up the pieces they leave behind. Good thing Daredevil's watching out of the little guy ...
Re: "The Incident"? Is that what we're calling it now?
(Anonymous) 2015-06-26 05:19 am (UTC)(link)Re: "The Incident"? Is that what we're calling it now?
(Anonymous) 2015-06-26 07:47 am (UTC)(link)Re: "The Incident"? Is that what we're calling it now?
(Anonymous) 2015-06-26 11:17 pm (UTC)(link)FILL 1/?: "The Incident"? Is that what we're calling it now?
(Anonymous) 2015-06-29 01:13 am (UTC)(link)Seconds later, another impact near the first. Somewhere downtown, somewhere dense with skyscrapers and fragile human lives. God have mercy. God have mercy. He sits there a moment (once he stands, he knows the world will never be the same again), his mind racing through where Foggy might be. Lounging around their apartment, probably, unless unless unless he had gotten bored of the sleepy university and slipped away to lose himself in the press of his native haunts in midtown.
He fumbles for his phone, orders it to call Foggy. Heads around him whip up and someone makes a disapproving snort. The phone rings once, twice, three time. Matt can barely breathe.
Then he picks up. “Matt, buddy, what’s up?”
“Foggy, where are you?” (“What the hell?” the woman next to him hisses.)
“I’m just in the room with con interp and Adventure Time. Is something –”
“Stay there. Don’t leave. Please. I’ll see you…I’ll see you soon. Just don’t go anywhere.”
“What the hell’s going on? Are you okay?”
Across the reading room, someone gasps out a sudden sob. “Holy shit! Everyone, check the news. There’s an attack happening! Here! In Manhattan!”
The pressure in the room skyrockets like in a shaken Coke bottle as everyone’s fight-or-flight responses simultaneously engage. There’s a mad grab for phones, the frantic fluttering of fingers across keys.
“Oh no no no no no, a plane into a building –”
“Christ, not again –”
“Dad? Dad? Are you there?”
(Matt, Matt, Foggy is shouting on the other end of the line.)
“Looks like Midtown –”
“My fiancé works in Midtown!”
“Wait, look at this picture on Twitter! What the hell is that thing?”
Outside, an alarm begins to sound. Matt stands, tells Foggy to be safe, hangs up his phone, and makes his way purposefully towards the doors. Out on the street, people are screaming, crying. The cars on Amsterdam have all come to a stop. There are strange vibrations in the air, somehow more sinuous that the rumbling of planes – but they are all to the south of where he stands. He feels another screeching impact. Downtown, people are dying. Buildings are coming down, and people are doubtless trapped under the rubble. They won’t have much time to be found.
Matt hates the noise, the panic, the sharp chemical smells. But he knows that he’s better than any bloodhound at finding people. He’s needed.
He slips his glasses into his pocket, drops his cane, and begins to run.
Re: FILL 1/?: "The Incident"? Is that what we're calling it now?
(Anonymous) 2015-06-30 12:25 am (UTC)(link)Re: FILL 1/?: "The Incident"? Is that what we're calling it now?
(Anonymous) 2015-06-30 01:33 am (UTC)(link)Re: FILL 1/?: "The Incident"? Is that what we're calling it now?
(Anonymous) 2015-07-03 03:34 am (UTC)(link)Re: FILL 2/?: "The Incident"? Is that what we're calling it now?
(Anonymous) 2015-07-03 04:07 am (UTC)(link)This far uptown, the streets are eerily still. To be sure, frantic presences scream out their panic from the buildings around him, but people have largely cleared the streets. Everyone is being ushered into basement shelters. He ignores the shouts that beckon him inside as he pelts southward. Sirens pierce his skull from all sides. He can hear the approaching whine of fighter jets. Just like the last time (the stink of bodies, the stink of metal, the stink of fear), only – there’s a strange tremble in the air, a cracking hum that draws him like a magnet.
A distant explosion rocks the pavement, and he nearly loses his footing. He needs to move faster. The explosions, the sound of gunfire – this is all going on far longer than a terrorist attack. What nation could be insane enough to unleash a military assault on Manhattan? And what strange airplanes could make those noises?
He slips through a line of rapidly appearing police barricades at 96th, and his heart sinks at the close call. It will only be harder from here, as he approaches New York’s newest Ground Zero (as he gets ever-nearer the fire and the fear). He thinks he could navigate the rooftops, but he’s kept the acrobatics to a minimum for the last decade and he needs to save his strength for the final stretch. He can cut across Broadway’s diagonal, and once he’s south of Columbus Circle…
But then there’s a full line of vehicles that might as well be tanks at 71st. Behind them, a crowd of people stand with their phones in the air. Matt slows and mimics their pose to catch the conversation.
“...like a giant metal snake, what the hell?”
“The beam on Stark Tower, what the…?”
“Fucking Iron Man! Fuck that guy, I always said! Don’t fuck around with robots!”
A man next to him dissolves into hysterical giggles. “Is this literally a robot attack? Are we all going to be killed by robots? Robots, oh my God!”
Robots? Snakes? This information is as incomprehensible as the alien buzz in the air from whatever is swarming Midtown. Apparently it makes no more sense to people who can see.
Matt senses the awful rending of pylons before the screams began. A building is collapsing to his south and east, right in the gleaming heart of the city. He thinks of all the landmarks that stand between him and Stark Tower – of all the people – and bites back a sob.
“That’s it, we’re getting you off the streets,” an official-sounding man barks from the line of massive vans. “Let’s move!”
Matt takes a couple steps back. Perhaps, if he’s smart, he can cut through the park and emerge where people need help. But… This is bad. This is very, very bad. This isn’t a single suicidal fanatic leaving carnage in his wake. This is a full-out attack on his home – an attack by, by terrorist robot snakes? And he has no idea if the chaos will stay contained or if will make its way uptown.
Maybe this is where he’s supposed to be, preparing for whatever is to come. Maybe he’ll be just as needed right here. He wishes he could have at least made it back to Hell’s Kitchen, back to the streets that are truly his, but the Upper West Side will have to do for now. He lets himself be herded into a Trader Joe’s below street level.
This is a mistake.
The subterranean concrete box is packed with panicked bodies, all adrenaline with nowhere to run. Things are reasonably quiet, all considered, but the thrum of anxiety emanating from below is as bad as any shouting. Halfway down the stairs, he tries to reverse course, to escape this pen of trapped animals waiting for their deaths.
“Hey, buddy!” a thin man shouts as Matt elbows him.
“Hey, hey!” A cop this time, judging by the authority in his voice. He’s standing at the top of the stairs. When Matt keeps moving against the current, he places a hand on the gun at his hip. “Sir, you need to get below ground. We’re clearing the streets.”
“I can’t,” he stammers, “I can’t go down there. Claustrophobic.”
“I’m sorry, sir, but better cramped than dead.”
“I need to get out!” He isn’t helping the situation. Heartbeats around him spike to a fever pitch at the threat of a further disturbance.
“Sir, we need everyone to work together right now. We can’t protect you out there. Now turn around.”
“Come on, dearie.” A matronly woman grabs for his shoulder and he flinches away. “Let’s get you seated somewhere. I’ll get you something to drink downstairs.”
And what option does he have? To fight his way up a crowd of civilians, past an irate cop and into a line of military vehicles? The strange sky calls to him – but he doesn’t dodge the woman’s second grab at his arm. He lets her guide him downward.
She’s trying to chatter something soothing, and he can feel her regaining control over her own body at finding someone else to help, but he ducks away from her as soon as they reach the bottom of the stairs.
People are whispering, praying, crying. There’s not much room to move, but he stumbles towards a corner where he hopes the press of terror will be muted by the earthy smells of the produce displays.
He parks himself at the base of a container of onions, arms clenched around his knees, and he tries not to shake himself apart as the ground rumbles around him.
Re: FILL 2/?: "The Incident"? Is that what we're calling it now?
(Anonymous) 2015-07-03 06:58 pm (UTC)(link)Re: FILL 3/?: "The Incident"? Is that what we're calling it now?
(Anonymous) 2015-07-13 05:09 am (UTC)(link)Outside, there are people dying. There is no doubt in his mind of this. Lives are blinking out under piles of rubble, and here he is huddled safe and useless against bags of onions. The rescue crews are springing into action, and he can’t bring himself to move.
Weak, Stick sneers from some half-suppressed memory. You’re soft, kid, and that means you might as well be dead meat. You’re not good for shit if you can’t master your own head.
This is what Stick had meant, then – that moment of proof when your mind and body break down when danger should make them stronger. Everything that he had been through should have prepared him for this day, should have helped him to preserve life from evil, and instead…
Soft indeed. He had thought that might be a virtue, a protest against Stick’s ruthless understanding of strength, but others were now paying the price for the shivers now wracking his frame.
Stick was an asshole. But that didn’t mean that he was wrong.
And what did Stick always tell him when he was overwhelmed with information? Start with your breathing, kid. Your life depends on your lungs. Breathing isn’t exactly easy when each inhale brings with it a fresh burst of chemical dust stinking of death, but he unfolds his arms, straightens his back, and tries to relax into the healing rhythms of meditation. He can’t quite achieve a full trance, so counts the minutes until he’s permitted to surface.
----
It’s nearly evening when they’re finally freed, the waning rays of sunlight filtering down through an ominous haze. There are no cars moving on the streets, and the subway is still on lockdown.
Matt should go downtown. Now is his chance to redeem himself, if he’s quick and smart. But after hours trapped underground, he feels neither. His breathing exercises were barely enough to keep him together; he’s in no state to assist others.
Up here, the air burns his lungs. He already knows that they’ll continue to burn for months. The anticipation is even worse than the actual sting.
He very nearly breaks down and asks a police officer for assistance, but he doesn’t feel very deserving of help right now He’s sure Foggy’s in a panic, but his cell reception is totally dead. The best thing he can do is return to his room for the night. He begins to trudge home alone.
When he at last reaches his door, Foggy leaps to his feet the moment Matt sticks his key in the lock.
“Matt!” The relieved weight of Foggy’s bear hug nearly knocks Matt off his feet. “Oh my God, Matt,” he babbles, salty tears leaking from his eyes. “You’re okay. I don’t know if I want to kiss you or kill you. That call, buddy! I was afraid that you…but you’re okay. Oh my God. What happened?”
“Hey, Foggy,” Matt breathes into his long, sweat-damp hair.
Foggy pulls back, grabbing Matt’s shoulders. “Where the hell were you? They let us out of our bunkers hours ago.”
“I, um, I decided to go to the grocery store. Shit timing, I guess. They kept us there a long time, then it took me a while to get home. Lost my cane in the confusion.”
“Fuck, Matt. How’d you get back?”
“Ah, some people helped me home. They were headed this way.”
Foggy takes a bracing breath. “Yeah. This is when this city really shows its spirit. We New Yorkers take care of each other when it really counts.”
Matt’s stomach twists. He extracts himself from Foggy’s grip and moves to his bed. “Foggy, do you know what happened? I was underground, and people are saying the craziest things. Have you seen anything? Pictures? News?”
“No one knows what’s happening. People are just supposed to stay in their homes for now. Matt… As far as anyone can tell, this weird beam shot out of Stark Tower, and then some crazy sci-fi shit happened and these robot things flew out of a hole in the sky and started taking out buildings. Then they’re saying that Stark showed up in his suit with Captain fucking America in tow and they somehow stopped the robots. I know, none of it sounds real, but the pictures are everywhere and there’s no way it’s all faked. Matt…even if those things are gone for good, this changes everything. And I mean everything.”
Matt thinks about his training, about his failure, about the fact that war has apparently come. “Yeah, yeah it does.”
“I’ve heard that people are congregating in Low. Y’know, if you don’t want to be alone right now. Wanna go check it out?”
“No, Foggy, I – I can’t really do more people right now. No more crowds for the night. You can go, though, if you want.”
“Shit, I’m not leaving you.”
“Then I say we break out some beers and face the music of our brave new world tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow – or next month.” Foggy scrubs his hands over his face. “I am really, really not ready to hear who died.”
“Tomorrow, Foggy. We’ve gotta go help. People need us.”
Foggy huffs and shakes his head. “I’m giving you, like, a super incredulous look right now.”
“You know there have to be people trapped under those fallen buildings. They might not have much time.”
“Shouldn’t we leave that to the professionals? Professionals with professional cancer-blocking equipment who presumably have the full use of all their senses to professionally navigate a disaster zone?”
“Foggy, my senses… You know my hearing’s extra sharp, and that could be useful for hearing people who are struck. Or they can stick me on handing out dust masks. I don’t care, but we can’t just hide up here.”
“Okay, buddy, as soon as it’s light I’ll head down with you to see what we can do. Because if I say no, I know you’ll just run off without me. And I’m not letting you out of my sight for the next month. You really scared me there, buddy.”
Matt wonders what Foggy would think if he knew that Matt had tried to run into the danger. It's really not worth pondering, so he awkwardly pats Foggy's shoulder and stands to fetch them some beers.
Re: FILL 3/?: "The Incident"? Is that what we're calling it now?
(Anonymous) 2015-07-13 09:30 pm (UTC)(link)*pets him soothingly*
Re: FILL 4/?: "The Incident"? Is that what we're calling it now?
(Anonymous) 2015-08-14 09:38 am (UTC)(link)“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?
(Anonymous) 2015-08-16 02:26 am (UTC)(link)I am floored, author!anon. This was perfect in every respect, primarily in the pace and tension. Matt's feeling of dread through the whole story - first for of a possible terrorist attack, then for Foggy's safety, then being trapped in a shelter, thinking about the people he isn't being allowed to help ... Oh man. Poor Matt, but also perfectly characterized Matt.
I love the idea that the Battle of New York was a defining moment in Matt's journey towards vigilantism (hence the prompt) and I'm so glad you ran with that. You also simultaneously hit two of my most precious headcanons: the Incident is what inspired Matt to begin attending church again, and Matt is intensely bitter toward Tony Stark/the Avengers (it may not have been their fault directly and Stark did try to help in the aftermath, but mostly by throwing money around and enabling men like Fisk to get their claws in)
Stick was an asshole. But that didn’t mean that he was wrong.
Despite the hate he gets in a lot of fic, I really like Stick as a character and Matt's tempestuous relationship with him, and you did both justice here.
Basically, even though it wasn't what I asked for, it was exactly what I wanted. All my love, all my AO3 kudos, this is fantastic thank you :)
Re: FILL 4/?: "The Incident"? Is that what we're calling it now?
(Anonymous) 2015-08-16 07:20 am (UTC)(link)<333333333
Yay! Thank you thank you thank you! So glad you liked!