Chapter 1
The first thing he noticed was the silence.
Even as a kid, he hadn’t been overly familiar with the sensation of ‘quiet’ things- he lived in New York, after all. There were always loud neighbors, tourists, cars- so much, constantly, providing a blanket sound beneath everything else. After the accident, he had never thought he would experience ‘quiet’ again, his world painted by blinding flashes of noises, constantly overwhelming him beyond his understanding, growing in strength every day. He hadn’t thought much of it at first- it was the only part of his world that was familiar, the noise. If it was a little louder than it should have been… Well, he didn’t have his sight distracting him, now, did he? Besides, people were always telling him of how his other senses would grow to compensate for his blindness. If it scared him, caused him to have a meltdown like a toddler a few times… Well, his dad was a wonderful person who just understood. There was no reason to worry him further, with some stupid nonsense such as this.
But it only kept growing. After his father died, after he was introduced to the orphanage… things began to get to be too much. Then Stick, and with it the ability to control his senses. Sure, it didn’t exactly fix the problem, and he still got incapacitated by it sometimes, but it was worth it. He saw more than sighted people, thanks to his super-cool, wicked abilities. (They didn’t scare him, they didn’t hurt, he was grateful, he was, he was good, Stick please are you proud yet?)
Since then, it was constant. He never thought he would feel the quiet again, though he dreamed of it. Dreamed of his senses being cradled in fuzzy-grey, soothed instead of assaulted.
Now that he couldn’t hear, though, he couldn’t feel anything but panic. Sure, he could feel everything, smell everything, taste everything, but he relied on his hearing more than anything else. He was in the middle of a fight, and he was just incapacitated.
He might have described the following events as a ‘blur’ if he only had enough of his senses to perceive anything. All his other senses were useless to him in his panic. He fought, frantically, but he couldn’t do anything.
All he could think about was the ear-splitting silence.
At some point, he passed out. (He only knew this because he woke up.)
His hearing was back. Too loud, too much, t o o m u c h, but the pain comforted him. It was back. His world was again bombarded by sensation, and he quickly gathered his energy so he could begin combing through them.
He barely controlled his keening when a voice spoke up, too-close-too-close-too-close. It was too loud, his hearing too sensitive- but he hadn’t made it this far without a disturbing ability to suppress pain.
His mind didn’t care for his misery. It ignored his pain and went to work processing what had been said. He didn’t have time to panic (again) and he knew it.
“You have been causing trouble.”
He didn’t have the energy to respond, and he had too much dignity to simply groan at him, so he just tried to breathe. It shouldn’t be that hard to breathe. This was a problem for later-him, though.
“The Masked Man, they call you. The Devil of Hell’s Kitchen.”
Footsteps.
“Is that what you are?”
A sharp kick to his side, and a blinding flash of white light, the blades of brightness tinged with an unsettling lime green, yellow sparks dancing on the ends, like some type of ethereal, malevolent lightning.
“You have been a pest, a thorn in the side of my boss for too long now. He is very pleased with your capture. He is busy now, but he will greet you properly soon, I am sure. He is quite the gentleman.” The voice was still talking. What was it saying?
Boss. Boss… “Fisk,” He rasped, his voice unrecognizable to even him. He wouldn’t have understood what he just said if he hadn’t been the one to speak it.
As it was, the man hummed in agreement, his voice disturbingly polite and mild-mannered. “Yes. Fisk.”
That did not bode well. All he could do was hope they wouldn’t find out who he was. Considering his blindness, his internet presence was rather low- but because of his blindness, he was quite recognizable enough on his own.
Foggy, Karen, and Claire were in danger. Father Lantom was in danger.
They would be next, once his captors realized he was more prepared for torture than they could plan for. He didn’t know if he could handle listening to their screams. He had never practiced that. They wouldn’t know anything so there would be no release from the pain. He had picked up the mask because he couldn’t handle listening to the screams of strangers. He had no idea what he would do to soothe the screams of those he loved.
The people he loved were in danger, because of him.
Because he had been stupid enough to get caught, because he had been reckless, hadn’t appreciated the effects of a gun firing so close to his ears.
Because he couldn’t bring himself to push him away, because he was selfish.
The man humphed, breaking him out of his thoughts. “You are remarkably weak, for the Devil. One gunshot, and you go down- and you weren’t even shot. How we didn’t capture you long ago, I don’t know- but then again, we didn’t care enough to try. I suppose we weren’t trying this time either, but you just fell into our laps…”
“You tryna kill somebody with that cologne?” Matt wheezed.
He simply hummed again. “I would prepare myself, if I were you. My boss does not like you. And people he doesn’t like… Don’t tend to stand the test of time. He goes through them far too quickly. I hope you satisfy him for a little longer than the last plaything we got for him. But, if not, there are plenty of other people, do not fret. You’re plenty expendable.”
(You think you’re something special, Matty? I’ll give you a hint- you’re n o t. You’re a disappointment. A failure. If you don’t shape up, I’m gonna drop you right back where you came from. There are plenty of little orphans- they might not have you’re abilities, kid, but I’m sure they’d find a way. Pathetic. W a s t e. Your daddy’s gotta be so ashamed. If you-...)
The footsteps echoed slightly in the otherwise empty room, and the door closed, the lock clicking shut from the other side. He could hear heartbeats and breathing as Cologne-Man joined them- people were guarding him.
It didn’t matter. He would escape, and he would wipe any records they had of him. He’d been prepared for situations like this since he was ten. This might not be easy, but it certainly wouldn’t be the most difficult thing he’d ever done.
(Maybe he could prove himself, finally. To Stick, to himself. He could do it, easy. He would. )