Chapter 1
It’s not that Marci can’t rock the high heels. It’s just that stilettos are dangerous on the best of days, and Marci is not going to break her ankle while she’s still learning how to walk with a cane.
Her friend Demetria seems to grasp this intuitively, picking out a pair of flats and placing them in Marci’s hands. “These are the black ones with pearl buttons on them. I’m thinking black dress, white sash— it’ll go with your cane. Do you have any other sunglasses?”
“They’re, uh…” She opens one of her dresser drawers, feels around in it. “...somewhere around here.”
Demi laughs. “Just like college, huh?”
“Somehow, I remember you being the messy one.” Even as she says it, though, Marci smiles. Their messy-roommate-neat-roommate dynamic was almost at the same level as Foggy and Matt’s, though with Matt it was because he was --
-- blind, and needed the organization so as not to lose anything. Yes, she understands him better now.
“It’s too bad you’re blind now,” Demi says offhandedly, “because this dress makes me look hot.”
“I can see enough. Glitter green. It suits you.”
After some more discussion, she and Demi pick out an outfit: classy black with white accents, matching her glasses and cane. When they’re ready to leave, Demi takes Marci’s elbow and starts to pull her out.
“Wrong way,” Marci says, nudging off Demi’s hand. She changes their positions so she is holding on to Demi’s arm. “Perfect. Let’s go.”
One thing about the Lawyers’ Society of New York: they know how to throw a party. The gala is set in a large conference center uptown; there are fairy lights strung up everywhere.
“Do you smell that?” Demi asks, making an exaggerated sound of licking her lips. “Horrs-devorrs!”
“It’s pronounced hors d’oeuvres,” Marci says, laughing. “Go on. Bring me something to drink. And if you see Foggy, let him know I’m here.”
Foggy’s voice rings out: “No need for that! Hey, Marci. Sorry I couldn’t walk you here.”
“He had to — help me with something,” Matt says. He’s holding on to Foggy’s elbow, and he doesn’t seem about to let go.
She has a vision of her life five years in the future: Hi, I’m Marci, and this is my husband Foggy, and this is Foggy’s boyfriend Matt.
Well, at least they’re all hot.
“I’m glad you came. It’s not the kind of party you get invited to in Hell’s Kitchen, is it?”
The three of them talk. Foggy does most of it. He narrates what the people around them are doing, noting colors and details when Matt and Marci ask. He gets them drinks and they enjoy the fancy alcohol.
Marci thinks, this is what your life could be like, Foggy.
If Foggy had been elected DA. If he had never left Landman & Zack. If he was as ruthless and ambitious as Marci herself was.
But then he wouldn’t be the Foggybear she loved, would he.
She doesn’t bring it up.
“You look great, by the way,” Foggy says.
“Demetria helped me match the outfit.” She turns to look for Demi, but doesn’t see her. No surprise there.
“Demi’s here? I don’t see her. Matt?”
Matt grins. “I don’t see her either.”
“Oh, you know what I mean. Did she tell you where she was going, Marci? I want to say hi to her. It’s been a while.”
Matt says, “I —”
Then he tilts his head as though he’s heard something, and he starts to stutter. “F— Foggy, I—”
“Go,” Foggy murmurs, and Matt darts off.
“Wait. What’s going on?” Marci asks. “Where’s he going? Foggy?”
“It’s nothing,” Foggy says with a laugh. He puts his arm around Marci’s shoulders, starts leading her in the opposite direction Matt ran to. “Matt’s just being Matt, you know how he is, it’s nothing to worry about —”
Marci’s not buying it. She shakes off his arm, whirls around. (In the process, she whacks someone with her cane. When they look at her, they’re the ones who apologize.)
“Marci, please, don’t go after him—”
That’s when Marci stops listening for him.
She crosses the room, moving around people with something like gracefulness, and reaches a back door. It opens into a cold grey alley. There’s a dumpster on one side, some blurry graffiti on the walls, but no sign of Matt or Demi.
She tells herself that Matt probably just freaked out at the unfamiliarity of the conference center and the delicate social etiquette of an uptown party. He probably just needed to get some fresh air, that’s all.
But if that was the case, why didn’t Matt or Foggy just say so?
She steps down the alley, one hand on the wall and the other holding her cane. “Murdock? If you’re out here, you’d better say something. You can’t just leave Foggy to cover for you all the time!”
Then she hears it: “Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck!”
“Demetria!”
Marci rushes forward, trying to focus on what she can hear. When she makes it to the mouth of the alley, she sees three figures. One is slumped against the wall — Marci recognizes Demi by her green-glitter dress.
The other two figures are fighting. Marci inches forward, eyeing them warily. She catches a flash of red… glasses?
That can’t be Matt.
Red glasses guy punches the stranger across the face. It’s a boxer’s punch. His stance is a boxer’s stance.
That can’t be Matt.
Red glasses guy punches the stranger’s head. The stranger goes down and stays down.
That can’t be Matt.
He asks, “Are you okay?” and it can’t be Matt but it is Matt.
In that moment, Marci connects three truths at the same time:
One: Matt Murdock fights strangely well for someone who talks for a living.
Two: Being blind would be a good way to divert suspicions of, say, being a violent vigilante.
Three: During the time that Matt was gone, there were no reported sightings of the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen.
It rings out loud and clear in Marci’s mind: Matt is Daredevil.