Ch.2 - Tempered
Strange Visitor: Iron Before Steel
Chapter 2 - Tempered
April 13th, 2009 – Queens, IRT Flushing Line
Clark’s jaw was aching from how hard he was clenching his teeth.
So much for taking in a little baseball tonight.
He felt the steel frame of the R160 car above him start to buckle from the force he was exerting on it and the steel rails beneath his hands as he attempted to slow their speed.
Fuck! This looked way easier for Tobey Maguire!
Clark was pressed against the front end of a runaway 7 Train as it barreled towards Manhattan along the elevated tracks of the IRT Flushing line.
It had been a minor miracle he was even in the area, as he’d planned on enjoying a few hours of Major League Baseball tonight before heading out into the city to do his hero work.
He had only just arrived outside Shea Stadium when the screams and screech of steel drew his attention. He’d chosen to wear his usual hero attire – he didn’t stand out, as it was a pretty popular look now that word of mouth had spread his description around.
The train had taken off like a rocket on the rails just after rising from the subway onto the elevated line. Some medical emergency had occurred with the driver, and thanks to post-9/11 rules, there was no way for any passengers to get into the driver’s compartment.
He had watched as the train, filled to bursting with people in blue pinstripes and the browns of visiting San Diego, accelerated past the Mets-Willets Point station.
He’d sprinted off after it immediately. Everyone around him was fairly distracted heading into the park, or if they were close enough to the train, they were watching it fly past its usual stop.
He raced along the street beneath for several blocks, finally leaping up onto the top of the train cars from the road at 108th. He almost fell off instantly when a slight turn of the tracks caused the cars to lean dangerously to the left. It was already moving well above the safe speed to make most turns.
Once he had regained his balance, he rushed to the front car and dropped in front of the speeding train to try acting as a brake for the vehicle.
It was not his finest decision, but the only one he could think of at the moment.
Without the ability to fly, Clark could only try to slow the train by using his legs against the track support beams. The main issue was that since this line was elevated above the ground, the wooden beams were the only thing holding up the tracks!
He had gently tried to slow the train as much as possible without damaging the ties. His feet would slide harmlessly across the surface as he used as much upper body strength as possible to slow the train.
It was… ineffective.
Clark found himself almost immediately underneath the front of the train, being dragged along or pushed out in front of it on his back – his legs underneath the train car. It was uncomfortable as he was battered into the wood with each beam they passed over.
His hands flew out to his sides almost instinctually as he grabbed at the steel rails the train traveled upon. Clark then began to pull at the rails, in towards his own body between them. If he couldn’t stop the wheels one way, maybe there was another way to make them brake.
Sparks erupted from either side of him as steel screeched against steel. The tracks would be the brakes, along with Clark’s hands and body.
Clark looked up, the city above him upside down, so he could try and see where they were. From his study of maps of the city over the past year, he knew that they were quickly approaching a curve that would not allow anything over 30 mph; otherwise, a derailment was likely.
The cars were jam-packed with bodies, and the death toll from a derailment would have been in the hundreds, Clark feared.
He kept up the pressure on the tracks as the train's speed (and his own sliding body) slowed. He peered through the tracks and picked out a street sign on the block ahead, easily read with his unique vision, even upside down.
52nd Street! Shit!
The turn was only a couple of blocks ahead as they crossed Queens Boulevard. He was out of time. Their speed had significantly slowed, but not enough to prevent a catastrophe unless he acted quickly.
Clark waited until the last possible second, and just before the bend in the tracks, he let go of the rails and pushed off against the train above him as hard as he safely thought he could. The burst of force slowed the train further at the last second.
Not enough.
Clark whirled in the air as he tried to orient his body to land feet-first on the avenue below. He watched in horror as the leading train car leaned hard to its left, eventually tipping over onto its side along the tracks above. Its momentum carried it forward through the curve and out into the space above the middle of the road where he stood.
By some minor stroke of luck, the busy Queens Boulevard was a split highway, with westbound traffic to the north and eastbound to the south. In between was a small strip of land where the track supports continued into the city.
The momentum of the train had slowed enough between Clark’s efforts and the overturning of the car that it didn’t continue out into the traffic of the busy eastbound lanes but rather just slowly tipped over the edge above the divider space.
Clark braced beneath the falling car and reached up to catch it before it crashed into the ground (or on top of him, considering where he now stood). The car brought him to his knees as he tried to cushion its fall to spare the people inside as much as possible.
He knelt in the middle of the median, bracing the weight of the entire car on his shoulders for a moment before setting the front end down. It was sitting at about a 45-degree angle with its nose on the ground and the tail still connected to the car behind, which was halfway hanging in the open air. He could see inside where everyone was grappling for seats and handholds to keep from being added to the pile of bodies now stacked against the driver’s compartment at the front end.
Clark moved quickly before anyone could be seriously injured or killed in the pile-up inside. He stepped to the front set of doors nearest the ground, reaching above his head to tear them open.
The door sat about six feet or so above the ground, and once open, three people immediately fell through the now-open space toward the ground. He reached out to quickly catch all three, setting them down beside him before he jumped up to the doorway.
He spent the next few minutes evacuating the riders to get to the driver’s compartment.
Sadly, whatever medical emergency occurred at the start of this incident had been mortal.
Clark carried the man out and set him down on the ground.
“Does anyone know CPR?” he asked the crowd around him. Two people immediately came forward out of the mass and began compressing and breathing for the non-responsive man.
Clark could hear the approaching sirens coming from all directions as first responders closed in. It was time for one of his signature escapes.
He stepped away from the gaping crowd, doing everything he could to avoid their eyes – the look they were all giving him made him decidedly uncomfortable.
One little boy reached out and grabbed his hand just before he could speed away.
Clark looked down at the youngster, who only smiled up at him and spoke a quick “Thank you!”
The sentiment echoed through the crowd around him. Clark felt his throat close up with unexpected emotion as he gave a curt nod in return before vanishing into the distance.
Whew. That was… I wasn’t ready for that. Maybe I have time to change and still catch the game.
He thought returning to the park in his usual attire tonight might be a poor choice. He did make the game, though.
____________________________________________
April 14th, 2009 – Mahattan, SHIELD Headquarters
Ventilation Ducts
Natasha lay on her back, throwing empty sunflower seed shells at the ceiling of the duct she was currently not hiding inside. Nope, definitely not hiding from Clint and the uncomfortable line of questions that were inevitable now.
If she had happened to choose a not-hiding spot that Clint was going to find her in – soon – well, that was just coincidence. She didn’t want to have this conversation after all. Nope. Although she knew that it was probably needed before she up and vanished utterly.
The banging and scraping further up the duct informed her that the conversation would happen now.
Clint slid into view as she looked up. Everything flipped on its head from her perspective.
Clint’s stupid lopsided grin was wider than the vent they were now relaxing inside.
He lay down opposite her so their heads were side-by-side, though their bodies pointed in opposite directions.
“So… you’re taking my hiding spots now, too, huh? What’s next? My bow?” The archer’s grin was audible.
She scoffed back. “As if. I like being useful on missions, not a sideshow attraction like you.”
He started laughing at that.
“That’s funny on more than one level. And it reminds me that I still have a few things to tell you about my past and how I ended up with SHIELD. But that can wait for now, Tasha. I think we both know why we need to talk. And why you took off without a word. Laura was worried for a moment.”
“… don’t wanna.”
“Was it… I know it’s not what you expected. I know we sprung it on you out of the blue, but you are the best person for the job. We trust you, Tasha-”
“You shouldn’t,” Natasha almost snapped at him. Anger and something else simmered underneath all the other emotions she had spent a lifetime holding back and denying.
It was difficult enough growing up under the gentle auspices of the Red Room. Letting people close was to court weakness and death.
Clint didn’t miss a beat.
“You’re better than you’ll ever know, Tasha. You aren’t what they tried to make you. You already proved you’re a living, breathing, thinking person just by reaching out and taking my hand when I offered it up. You can do this. I know that every single cell in your body is screaming at you to run away right now, but you can be more. You deserve the future that we want to help you make. When you’re ready.”
She turned her head at that, looking into his face, searching for any sign of deceit or a tell. None were there. Even upside down, Clint’s stupid face was easy for her to read after a year or so.
He was right about the wanting-to-run thing. She could admit that easily enough.
“Come on. Do it. Be the godmother of Cooper and Lila. For us, or them, if it makes it easier for you.”
His grin was infectious, she also had to admit.
A sly smile spread across her face before she answered.
“I don’t even know what that means. I don’t know how to be a godmother.”
“That’s the easy part. You just keep doing what you’re doing now. You can spoil them and tease them. Play with them, listen to them babble. Everything you’re doing is like second nature. The only difference is that you get an official title. And if anything ever happens to Laura and me, you take care of them.”
She froze.
He laughed.
“Relax. Laura’s not going anywhere any time soon, so you’ve got plenty of time to get used to that little fact.”
“… You really are an ass, you know that?”
“Yup.”
Another beat went by before Clint opened his mouth again and brought up the other elephant in the room.
“And about what Cooper said, don’t think about it too much just yet either. Kids tell everyone they love them at that age. And while it's true, I’m sure there isn’t anything else you need to do. Just keep being his awesome Auntie Nat. And let them keep being the cool little munchkins you can’t say no to. The rest will take care of itself in time.”
That was the moment that caused the panic to overtake her and drove her from the house, the farm, the very state they’d been in when it had happened.
The little tow-headed boy had thrown his arms around her after a vigorous game of hide-and-seek, which was more of her chasing him around the yard after he would pop up from whatever little “hiding place” he had chosen. She had grinned and looked at his tiny face, split by a huge grin, and he’d told her he loved her.
And something in her broke loose.
Something deep in her mind rattled and screamed to be let out when she’d looked into his blue eyes curtained behind his blonde bangs and beaming smile. She’d never been more afraid in her life, she thought.
She panicked and fled the farm within an hour after settling the boy in the house near his mother.
Because she wanted to remember in that moment. She needed to remember.
The memories of the Red Room were better left buried.
After looking at Clint’s stupid face for another minute, she shrugged and said, “Fine. But not because of you, bird-brain. I’m doing it for Laura and the kids. They need a cool role model, not a loser like their dad.”
Clint’s grin didn’t falter.
“Ha. Ha. Funny, Romanoff. You are such a pain in my ass, you know that?”
She knew.
____________________________________________
April 15th, 2009 – Kunar Provice, Afghanistan
Clark gazed through several dozen feet of rock and other material as he focused on his target.
Tony Stark fiddled with a small control panel on the arm of the massive iron suit he was building with the help of a lanky friend.
It had been hell tracking this place down over the past month.
Clark had spent hours studying online maps of Afghanistan, trying to get an accurate idea of the layout of the country so that he could plan his search. In the end, he’d asked Kelex to break into the Department of Defense’s records to get the most up-to-date information and the location where Stark had been ambushed, east of Bagram Air Base toward the mountains.
That was where he had found the cave where the Ten Rings held Stark and Ho Yinsen – the mountains of Kunar Province, almost to the border of Pakistan.
He’d been back every day since to keep track of Stark’s progress with his suit and keep a general eye on things. He knew how things were supposed to unfold here, but he wasn’t taking any chances with fate, destiny, or whatnot. He wouldn’t let a falling rock or an overzealous guard kill Tony Stark.
He had been thinking about how best to help during Stark’s upcoming escape. The Mark I suit would protect the man directly, most likely if Clark did nothing, but it would be better to ensure things went a little more smoothly if he could. Plus, it would give Yinsen a fighting chance as well.
He’d initially been a bit more torn about that – saving Yinsen.
It had been suggested that the good doctor hadn’t ever intended to survive his incarceration, preferring to die to go and be with his murdered family. Clark thought he even said something to that effect as he lay dying in Stark’s arms after the jailbreak. But that could also have just been him trying to assuage the guilt-ridden industrialist from adding another death to the growing tally in his mind.
He’d try and give the man a fighting chance, at the least. He couldn’t stop someone who was actively suicidal. He wasn’t sure he even had the right. But he would damn sure give him another option.
Yinsen died, giving Stark more time to get the suit activated. Clark thought he could do one better than that. When the escape started, Clark would attack the weapon stockpiles outside the hidden base. Thousands of pounds of artillery and weaponry were stacked in piles around the mouth of the cave. Stark destroyed them in the movie, but Clark would do the deed this time.
When the time came, he’d unleash his heat vision and light up the sky.
If everything went according to plan, Tony would have another friend to depend on in the years ahead. Clark expected a good man like Yinsen would only make that future brighter.
____________________________________________
April 17th, 2009 – Manhattan
175 5th Avenue, New York, NY
“ROBERTSOOOOON!!!! Robertson! Robertson, get your butt in here!”
“I’m literally standing right beside you...”
“Oh, there you are. Robertson! Why the hell is there a fetus in my office?”
“… I’m fifteen, sir.”
“This is the boy that we talked about earlier. He’s the one with the pictures? From Monday?”
“Oh! Right. Well, kid, hand ‘em over. Right here on the desk. Gimme, gimme, gimme. Come on. Pick up the pace!”
The young boy jumped at that, walking over to the large desk and setting down the folder with large prints of a set of photographs in front of the finger that was rapidly thumping said desk.
J. Jonah Jameson, publisher of the Daily Bugle, snapped them up off his desk with a flourish, opening the folder to gaze at the photos tucked within.
"Hmmmm...oh. Yes, these are good. Perfect even! Look at that - got him right there, at the scene of the crime! No face shots, though, huh kid?”
The youth fidgeted across the desk from the imposing publisher, shaking his head to confirm the man’s question.
“He never turned his face toward me, sir, at least not when there was a clear shot.”
“Oh well, could be worse. The headline just about writes itself, though, doesn’t it, Robertson? ‘Hooded Hoodlum Vandalizes City Train!’ It will fly off the newsstands!"
The boy got indignant at that remark.
“Hey! You can’t do that! He didn’t vandalize anything! He saved all those people, he was helping! The paramedics even said he saved a lot of people by getting the doors open so quickly. They’d have suffocated each other under all that weight with them packed in like that!”
Jameson turned his furrowed brows toward the boy.
“You worry about the pictures and leave the writing to the professionals. Besides, if he hasn’t got anything to hide, why is he keeping his face hidden under that hood and that ballcap? Tell me that, smart guy.”
The boy looked on with a furious expression for a moment before offering an opinion.
“Well, maybe he’s afraid that a bunch of jerks will start telling stories about him when he’s just trying to help people. Ever think of that?” he finished with a mulish pout.
The seated adult waived off his reply with a quick ‘bah!’ before adding, “You got stones, kid. I’ll give you that.”
Joe “Robbie” Robertson cut in, “Maybe we shouldn’t start with libel for the first story with pictures of the Marvel.”
Jameson glared at his subordinate before shrugging.
“Fine, we’ll keep it straight, boring facts then. This time. We’ll save the opinion pieces when we get a shot of his big, fat mug splashed across the page.”
Robertson sighed, shaking his head as if this was common in the office. (It just usually involved public figures like politicians or celebrities.)
“Vigilantism is a menace, kid! Always remember that. No one has the right to take the law into their own hands and dish out justice like malts in an ice cream parlor.”
The boy’s brow scrunched at that simile, looking at the man beside the desk for clarification.
He received a slight head shake and put-upon expression in return.
The boy retorted anyway. “Helping people and saving lives isn’t vigilantism! It’s called being a good person! The only crime that day was the Mets losing to the Padres!”
Jameson looked unimpressed by that. “Mets fan, huh? Well, no accounting for taste.”
Robertson chimed in before Jameson got off on a tangent.
“J.J., this city and country have had legends and heroes before. It’s been a while, yes, but we aren’t unused to seeing people do the incredible or unusual to protect their neighbors and fellow citizens. There was Captain America during the Second World War, obviously, but even after that, there was the Spirit, who turned out to be just a cop, and there was the Human Torch, who was a robot. What about the Blackhawks or that rumored shrinking man that the government had in the sixties and seventies? Wesley Dodds was another -”
Jameson had heard enough and cut in.
"Yeah, yeah. I know ‘em all. Even as far back as WWI there were rumors about a super soldier. Hell, a cowboy in the 1880s wore a mask and called himself VIGILANTE! Point is, power can’t be trusted in any man’s hands without accountability, and how can you have that if we don’t know who he is?”
“… who hurt you, J.J.?”
“Shut up. Anyway, where were we? Oh, right. The pictures. Robbie, can we buy pictures from a twelve-year-old? I mean legally. I’m gonna do it anyway.”
“… fifteen.”
“Yes, we can buy his pictures because he came with his mother, who is sitting right over there.”
“Oh. I just thought she was a new secretary or something. Hello, ma’am. Your son is very talented with a camera.”
“Thank you! We’re very proud. But he wanted me to let him handle this so he could be a big boy, so I’ll sit over here, but you have my permission.”
“….moooooom!”
“Right! Pictures! Now, kid, I gotta tell you. These may be excellent, but you didn’t get his face, and I never offer more than the going rate anyway. Since you’re new to this and a minor, I couldn’t possibly offer more-”
Before Jameson could get the actual number out that he was planning on undercutting the boy photographer with, the office door opened, and a tall, slim man in a checked suit and fedora waltzed into the room.
“Sorry to interrupt, but I couldn’t help but hear how things are progressing here. Mostly because the default volume is set to eleven on one of you.”
Robertson hid a smirk as Jameson tried to regain his momentum.
“And who the hell are you barging into my office during an important business meeting? Nice suit. Looks like a sofa I've had since 1983.”
The man took off his hat and, with his other hand, offered a business card.
“I’m something of an independent journalist, as it were. And I also know a little something about photography, seeing that I usually work alone, so I’m fairly familiar with those ‘going rates’ you were about to offer the boy.” He leveled Jameson with a knowing look as the publisher leaned back in his seat and tried not to look guilty, to middling success.
“I’ve been tailing my own little passion project over the past few years and felt it was about time to get some of that truth out to the public. Before the military or worse tries to put a stop to it.”
That got Jameson’s attention.
“My name is Jack McGee, Mr. Jameson, and I’ve been chasing after the so-called Incredible Hulk for the past three-plus years.”
Jameson deflated. “The Hulk? That bunk!? You’d have better luck with Bigfoot for all the good it would-”. Before Jameson could finish the sentence, McGee tossed down his own set of glossy candids.
A raging green monster was captured mid-rampage across most of them.
“Sweet Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” was all Jameson could reply as the lit cigar dropped out of his mouth and into his lap.
After a quick flurry of slaps and yells, he regained his composure and looked at the unaffiliated journalist.
“How much?”
“This is my going rate, and you’ll pay the kid the same for his photos.”
A small slip of paper with something scribbled on it changed hands. Jameson looked at it and immediately raised his head to look McGee in the eye.
“That’s outrageous! ... I’ll take everything you got. You want a job?”
McGee grinned at him. “I like my current arrangement, thank you. The freedom of an independent reporter is tough to beat. But I’m certainly amenable to sending more stories and pictures your way as they come.”
“Works for me.” Jameson held up one photo from each of the folders before him, a manic grin spreading across his face as he beheld their image. “I can see it now. Frontpage, bold as brass: The Age of Marvels! We’ll be able to print our own money, Robertson! Where the hell is Urich? He’s perfect for this story! URICH!!”
Sigh. “You fired him two days ago, J.J., remember?”
“What?! Who the hell let me do a stupid thing like that? That doesn’t sound like me. Don’t I pay you so I don’t do stupid things like that, Robertson?”
“Because after three hours of arguing about it, you threatened to fire me if I didn’t drop it…”
“...that does sound like me. Fine, call him up. Tell him he’s rehired and catch him up on the story we’ve got. Where’s Sheldon? The two of them can work together on this!”
“Phil is still out on that book tour, remember? I think he’s ready to retire, J.J.”
“That’s what we all say in this business. We don’t retire til we’re dead. Call ‘em both up. Offer them a raise if you have to.”
McGee decided he’d heard enough as he tipped his cap to the old hats on the other side of the desk. He then turned to the skinny kid still standing next to him.
“So you wanna be a reporter, huh, kid? Or is it just behind the camera for you?”
“Well, I guess I never really thought about it, sir. I’ve always just liked taking pictures.”
Jack flashed a sharp grin at the boy.
“That’s not a bad place to start... say, what was your name, kid? I don’t think I got it when I busted in here.”
“James, sir. James Olsen. But, well, most people call me Jimmy.”
McGee wrapped an arm around young James Olsen’s shoulders as he started walking him and his mother out of the office.
“Well, Jimmy. You stick with me for now, yeah? I’d be happy to show a youngster the ropes like someone did for me once…”
____________________________________________
April 27th, 2009 – 1135 Amsterdam Avenue, New York, NY
Just off the campus of Columbia Law School
The bag hit the bar harder than intended, a solid crash sounding across the floor of the busy establishment. The butt that hit the stool in front of the bag on the bar was somewhat quieter, though no less dramatic due to the breathy sigh that the young man released as he sat.
“And just like that, classes are finished for year two of the Matt and Foggy Law Tour, Columbia edition. I don’t know about you, buddy, but I call this a win.”
The quieter young man who sat more elegantly than his boisterous friend cracked a slight grin, his head turning slightly as if to catch the words spoken out of the air with the gesture.
“Well, we didn’t flunk out, if that’s what you mean. I don’t know about your grades, but mine were respectable enough this year.”
Matt Murdock’s dark glasses hid his eyes from the world, but his boyish grin was on display at the bar across from the Arthur W. Diamond Law Library at the corner of 116th St. and Amsterdam Avenues.
He and his best friend, Franklin “Foggy” Nelson, had decided to go straight from their final class of the year to visit what had quickly become the most popular bar for the school – faculty included if several of the voices from across the room were who he thought they were.
It was time to celebrate. Things were looking up for the hopeful law student.
A low whistle of appreciation or impression from Foggy got Matt’s attention.
“Wow. Now, that is not something I expected to see on the wall of a bar sitting on a law school campus,” Foggy stated in slight wonder.
“Do tell, what’s on the wall,” Matt responded amiably.
They’d known each other for nearly two years, so while another person may have been flustered or embarrassed that they’d forgotten Matt was blind, Foggy didn’t miss a beat – much to Matt’s amusement and gratitude.
“They’ve got a full floor mural painted on the far wall. It’s gotta be the vigilante, you know. The Marvel? You can’t see a face; it’s all painted in shadows, but there’s a big, wide-shouldered guy in a brown leather jacket, blue jeans, and a hood. You can even see the Chicago Cubs' hat under the hood! It’s ballsy, I’ll give the owner that at least.”
A slap on the bar caught Foggy’s attention as a middle-aged man greeted them with, “Ballsy, huh? How so? And what can I get you boys while I’m at it?”
Matt had known the bartender was approaching due to his special… abilities… but he’d thought it would be fun to let his friend get caught out by the ambush.
“Oh! Right, uh, I’ll take a Stella, please. Draft if you’ve got it?”
A nod from the bartender confirmed they did as the man turned to Matt. Something about the bartender was familiar. Matt Murdock’s eyes hadn’t worked in more than 15 years, but the senses he had gained in response were sharper than sight.
He knew this man.
“Oh, I’ll take the same. Thank you, good sir.”
The bartender happily reached beneath the countertop to pull two crisp, clean pint glasses and filled them up expertly as a professional would.
“So, back to my question,” the barkeep continued. “What about the mural makes you think ‘ballsy’? Are you an art critic, or perhaps is it the subject matter that you find slightly... objectionable?”
Foggy grinned unashamedly. He did love to debate, as lawyers (or soon-to-be lawyers) were wont to do.
“Well, to boldly splash the image of the world’s most famous vigilante across the establishment while it sits on the campus of one of the country’s premier law schools is ballsy, I would say.”
Matt chuckled in response. Both sets of eyes turned to him as the bartender put the ball in Matt’s court.
“And you, his friend, disagree?”
Matt took a moment to collect his thoughts, and a cold glass of beer was set down on the bar before him. He took a quick pull from the draft, enjoying the robust aroma and the sharp, fizzy taste.
“Well, knowing my friend as I do, I suspect he disapproves of the efforts of said vigilante?” It was more of a question than it would have been had a stranger not been in their company. Foggy quickly confirmed.
“Yes. I believe that the law is in place to help separate mankind from his baser instincts. Without it, there’s no real justice. Everything devolves into revenge and eye-for-an-eye brutality. Vigilantes, rare may they be, break the social contract that lawful civilizations require for smooth and continued existence. We can’t just take the law into our own hands whenever it suits our needs.”
The bartender’s eyebrows climbed up his spacious scalp.
“Wow. That was a mouthful kid. If I were one of your professors, I’d be pretty impressed by that quick summary. What about you, Mr. Mysterious?”
Matt laughed at the nickname and gave his rebuttal.
“Sometimes the law can’t provide justice, though, Foggy. Sometimes, the only thing standing between the innocent and disaster is a good man who isn’t afraid to fight. The law can’t be everywhere or do everything, not outside of a police state.”
The bartender nodded before responding.
“Not wrong. That’s a definitive problem for all lawful societies. I get the feeling you two have had this argument before."
That got them both laughing as they enjoyed their post-class beverage as he continued.
“Now, let me tell you my take. You’re both right. And both wrong. For the average man, there’s not much we can do but follow the law and hope that in our darkest hours, it will be there to protect or, in the worst case, avenge us. Most of us shouldn’t take the law into our own hands. We don’t have the training or, in most cases, the presence of mind to know where the line is when we reach it. But the question I pose to the two of you is this: is that an average man?” He pointed to the mural on the wall of the faceless hero, which Foggy softly relayed to his sight-challenged friend.
“Power should always be shackled to responsibility. The powerful in this world are rarely held accountable. That man, whoever he is, scares those who hold the power because they can’t control him. Can’t shackle him. And that’s why he keeps his face hidden, not because he’s ashamed or guilty. At least those are my two cents. I think he does what he does because he has to. He’s a good man who wants to help. And that’s okay in my book.”
Matt nodded in agreement, while Foggy also nodded, though more reluctantly.
“It’s not an argument that will win in any court, but it makes sense to me,” the man’s gravelly voice finished.
Matt couldn’t hold back his curiosity any longer. “I’m sorry, but your voice sounds very familiar. Have we met before?”
“I dunno, kid. You got a name?” He was challenged.
“I’m Matt Murdock, and my friend here is Foggy Nelson. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr…” He let the question hang in the air.
There was silence for a moment before Matt could hear him mutter, “Murdock, Murdock…” for a few beats, followed by a shocking revelation.
“No. You can’t be. Who was your dad, kid?”
That was not a question Matt had been expecting. “My dad’s name was Jonathan Murdock. He died some years ago,” he relayed with a touch of sadness in his voice.
“My god. Kid, your dad was one of the toughest men I ever stood in the ring with, you know that? I fought a lot of guys over my career, but I can think of one, maybe two others, that could take a punch like Battlin’ Jack Murdock. The only one that could take that kind of beating and still finish the fight was Hogan, maybe. And he never won. I was real sorry to hear about his death. He was one of the good ones, kid. May 1987. That’s a fight I’ll never forget. No matter how hard your old man tried to knock it out of my head. I watched his career for years after that. Never understood how he never got a better shake.”
Matt sat stunned, his mouth hanging open as he heard about one of his father’s best fights over twenty years earlier.
“May of ‘87, that was the Bibbowski fight-”
“Bo Bibbowski, at your service, gentleman. My friends just call me Bibbo, though. And the son of Jack Murdock will always be welcomed here as a friend. Welcome, boys, to the Ace of Clubs.”
____________________________________________
April 30th, 2009 – Camp Lehigh, New Jersey
Alexander Pierce sat wearily down at the lone table in the room.
Banks of obsolete and laughably outdated computers surrounded him on almost every side. He was alone here, save for the intelligence that inhabited these ridiculously oversized tape recorders and punch-card computers.
Arnim Zola had summoned him several days prior.
Summoned wasn’t the right word, he supposed. Requested the presence of, called for… it was more polite than a summons, but the meaning was clear.
Zola wanted him here.
And now, he sat as the two caught up on mindless chatter and gossip for a few minutes before getting to the important stuff.
Pierce continued with his last piece of news.
“Corben has begun work on Steel Soldier. Weapon Plus has indicated it will have Alpha Priority from this point on. Whatever was occupying that slot before has either been canceled or completed. With any luck, we will have our mechanized warrior to replace our lost Asset sooner rather than later.”
Zola’s mechanical voice replied.
“There is still no sign of the Winter Soldier then? No leads, no rumors, nothing, am I correct?”
Pierce could only ruefully nod.
“Yup. It’s like he vanished off the face of the damn planet. He’s either dead or free of us at this point, I reckon. Can’t say he hasn’t earned it after everything we put the poor bastard through, but it does put me in a helluva bad spot. We don’t have anyone nearly as intimidating to keep the wolves at bay.”
Zola hummed in response.
“Unfortunate, but not unexpected. We always knew the risks of keeping such a dangerous creature under our thumbs. We should be so lucky if he is truly dead. If he is not, well… it will only be a matter of time before he comes for us all I should think.”
Pierce agreed. He was constantly watching over his shoulder now. For all the damn good it would do.
“Yeah. I’m trying not to think too hard about that, thank you. At least you’re safe here in your bunker.”
“Perhaps it would be worth one more last-ditch effort to get our lost sheep back into the fold. It would be better for Hydra if he were back where he belongs.”
“Did you have any specific idea how we do that, or are you just spit-balling here, Zola?”
“I’ve recently had a bit of inspiration from a movie, of all things. I think that we may be able to find Sgt. Barnes using a similar method that the antagonists of that film successfully employed. Tell me, Director Pierce, have you ever seen Serenity?”