He is tired, is his only excuse. He is tired, because Foggy’s still hurt and angry, and because he still can’t find Stick, and because he’s spent three nights in a row lingering on Foggy’s fire escape when he can’t find anyone to hit.
That’s the only thing that lets the cut-rate muscle from O’Leary’s chop shop get the drop on him. He'd miscounted heartbeats, somehow; there are three more than he thought. Seven is a few too many opponents for even him to be dumb enough to take on singlehandedly.
At least, he thinks ruefully as he tries to maneuver his back to a wall, they don't seem to be armed with the weapons they deal out of that chop shop.
He knocks a tooth out of the nearest mouth with a billy club and twists to avoid a kick that'd have him pissing blood if it landed right. They're cutting off the exit, and it's not in Matt's nature to run anyway.
"Motherfucking devil piece of shit," one of them snarls. "You're dead, you hear me? You're fucking dead!"
He doesn't dodge fast enough to avoid the next punch, and now he knows why he smelled brass earlier - the knuckles leave his head ringing and his radar sense scattered. Another punch to his gut knocks the breath out of him, and then a kick to his knee sends him crashing to the dirty floor. This is it, then, he thinks as he tries to roll away from them, as he tries and fails to get to his feet. No great sacrifice, just beaten to death by idiots. He can't even die in a way that does any good to anyone, and as a steel-toed boot connects with his jaw he can only hope that Foggy doesn't find out about it through the news, that someone breaks it to him gently.
Then he hears it. A familiar, rhythmic tapping.
There are still seven of them, but there's a reason Stick was Matt's sensei. He scatters them like leaves, his cane spinning like a thresher, breaking fingers and teeth. Matt pushes himself to his feet and drops two opponents himself, but it's barely necessary. The rest are unconscious on the ground by the time he's done.
"Don't get your panties in a twist, I didn't kill any of them," Stick says. His voice sounds dull and distant. Matt probably has a concussion.
"I know," Matt says. He's not that far gone that he can't count the heartbeats - properly, this time.
"Good, because you sure as hell don't know anything else, you dumb little shit," Stick says. "This is what you choose? This is your great calling? Letting a bunch of chi-less illiterates kick your face in in a warehouse?" He bends to wipe blood off his cane on one of said illiterate's backs. "Behold the superhero."
"I didn't exactly plan for it to go down this way," Matt says. It hurts to talk.
"Because you've always been so great with plans." Stick drops the mocking tone, which actually startles Matt. "This life you've chosen? This fake domesticity with that sponge cake boyfriend of yours? It's killing you. You're a weapon, Matty, and you can't afford to let your edge get dulled."
He puts on his glasses, a helpless old blind man again. "You want to go out in a blaze of glory like your old man? Fine. I think it's a waste, but hell, it'll be your funeral. But at least let me point your stupid, suicidal ass in a direction where it'll do some good."
And he taps his way out of the warehouse, leaving Matt to hobble his way home alone.
giving the game away, 6/7
That’s the only thing that lets the cut-rate muscle from O’Leary’s chop shop get the drop on him. He'd miscounted heartbeats, somehow; there are three more than he thought. Seven is a few too many opponents for even him to be dumb enough to take on singlehandedly.
At least, he thinks ruefully as he tries to maneuver his back to a wall, they don't seem to be armed with the weapons they deal out of that chop shop.
He knocks a tooth out of the nearest mouth with a billy club and twists to avoid a kick that'd have him pissing blood if it landed right. They're cutting off the exit, and it's not in Matt's nature to run anyway.
"Motherfucking devil piece of shit," one of them snarls. "You're dead, you hear me? You're fucking dead!"
He doesn't dodge fast enough to avoid the next punch, and now he knows why he smelled brass earlier - the knuckles leave his head ringing and his radar sense scattered. Another punch to his gut knocks the breath out of him, and then a kick to his knee sends him crashing to the dirty floor. This is it, then, he thinks as he tries to roll away from them, as he tries and fails to get to his feet. No great sacrifice, just beaten to death by idiots. He can't even die in a way that does any good to anyone, and as a steel-toed boot connects with his jaw he can only hope that Foggy doesn't find out about it through the news, that someone breaks it to him gently.
Then he hears it. A familiar, rhythmic tapping.
There are still seven of them, but there's a reason Stick was Matt's sensei. He scatters them like leaves, his cane spinning like a thresher, breaking fingers and teeth. Matt pushes himself to his feet and drops two opponents himself, but it's barely necessary. The rest are unconscious on the ground by the time he's done.
"Don't get your panties in a twist, I didn't kill any of them," Stick says. His voice sounds dull and distant. Matt probably has a concussion.
"I know," Matt says. He's not that far gone that he can't count the heartbeats - properly, this time.
"Good, because you sure as hell don't know anything else, you dumb little shit," Stick says. "This is what you choose? This is your great calling? Letting a bunch of chi-less illiterates kick your face in in a warehouse?" He bends to wipe blood off his cane on one of said illiterate's backs. "Behold the superhero."
"I didn't exactly plan for it to go down this way," Matt says. It hurts to talk.
"Because you've always been so great with plans." Stick drops the mocking tone, which actually startles Matt. "This life you've chosen? This fake domesticity with that sponge cake boyfriend of yours? It's killing you. You're a weapon, Matty, and you can't afford to let your edge get dulled."
He puts on his glasses, a helpless old blind man again. "You want to go out in a blaze of glory like your old man? Fine. I think it's a waste, but hell, it'll be your funeral. But at least let me point your stupid, suicidal ass in a direction where it'll do some good."
And he taps his way out of the warehouse, leaving Matt to hobble his way home alone.