[DANCE OF DEVILS] Ghosts [Daredevil] [Invite]

[webdevil]

Matt Murdock hated Autumn.

The wind turned bitter, the leaves began to fall, and the world felt even more foreboding than the harsh winter that followed. Winter was clean. Simple. Cut off. But Fall - it was a hell unto itself as the world began to slowly die once more after another year.

To a normal individual, they either saw it as an excuse for photos, pretty leaves, and pumpkin spice. Also trick-or-treating. But for a man who dressed like everyday was Halloween, the All Hallows Eve did not have any of the lustre. Certainly not in Hell's Kitchen, and certainly not for one who could not see it. Instead he was greeted with the smell of mulch, the rattling of heaters roaring to life in old buildings, and knife-edge winds that cut deeper than the blades they were metaphorically associated with.

For you see: Matt Murdock is blind. Yet despite the accident that took his sight from a young age, it granted him with senses so sharp that the world around him took on a much different view. On top of acute senses of smell, touch, taste, and hearing that could rival that of any bloodhound, he also was granted with attuned muscular control, precision, equilibrium, and most of all, a timely "Radar" that allowed him to "see" the world in shadows.

And shadows were all he had, for Matt Murdock was also Daredevil, The Man Without Fear.

But a Man Without Fear was also a man without love. Only loss. Which was why he found himself standing with a bouquet of sunflowers as dying as the maple leaves under his crimson tactical boots in front of a gravestone outside of the Clinton Mission in Hell's Kitchen. The headstone - rather simply carved given the budget they had at the time - had a simple date of birth, death, and a name. A name that had once been all over the country in people's radios, and sometimes their secret stashes, but just as easily forgotten to all except him.

KAREN PAGE.

He knelt and put the flowers down, placing them gently in front of the stone as to not obstruct the name he could not see.

"You always wanted something bright and warm," he grunted quietly. He placed a hand on the gravestone. He spoke a prayer:

"There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under the heavens: a time to be born and a time to die, a time to plant and a time to uproot, a time to kill and a time to heal, a time to tear down and a time to build, a time to weep and a time to laugh, a time to mourn and a time to dance… - Ecclesiastes 3:1-4" he said. Then he snorted. You were never religious as I am, my love. But you didn't care. In fact you always found it amusing when I held it over your head. And in turn you over mine. Like when you worked here once as your means of "saving the world". But I know right now, in your own way, you are telling me that I should not be upset. But I am. And in spite of everything, not having you here only makes it that much harder to wear this outfit. There are many things I wouldn't give to have you back - but would you want that? Are you not at peace?

Daredevil stood up, leaving his hand on the stone a little longer.

"Maybe I should be too."

The sun was setting behind the buildings. He felt it. And the winds grew colder still.

[Rook]

It was rare for Enoch to be in an area that wasn't luxurious or at least had some form of higher level housing but he'd wanted to branch out in his skill set, given the fact he was a child. And children were almost always overlooked by those around him, the young Latino boy had come to Hell's Kitchen. Not in his spectacular outfit but a simple pair of shorts and a shirt, that way he'd fit in with the rest of the children. He'd even begun the start of joining a group of them playing near a mission, one thing that was interesting about other children for Enoch was that they almost never had any sins. Sure they did things that might get them in trouble but rarely was it bad enough to come up on his radar, for them it was mostly that they didn't know better.

Sure he was one himself but he was quite different from them, in a lot of ways. Not just in the upbringing he had, sans his early years which were quite normal. But after that, well one could say it was his origin, what made him what he was and even pushed his powers to what they were. Regardless of that, Enoch was here to do a little undercover work. Pick out targets, get to know people around and find out who'd be interesting to put his cross hairs on. Children were also great in that aspect, they often knew all the secrets or even if they didn't. They still knew the rumours and heard things that others didn't know they had, it was what made him do this. He was playing with the other children, fitting in surprisingly well.

But at the same time, he was periodically checking out things, people and places in various directions. He'd already actually been here a few months back, laid a few people down and left. He didn't even personally touch any of them, just let their guilt do the work. Enoch knew that Hell's Kitchen was one of the nastiest places in New York, so he wouldn't be short of victims here. But he also knew the place was protected so he had to be careful about where and how he stepped, which was why he'd only been here briefly before in costume. Right now though, he was simply testing the waters and doing some scouting as a normal Latino boy in a crowd of children playing.

[webdevil]

Smells, Tastes, Feelings, and especially sounds were a cacophony that created a world. Even for a sighted person. But to one whose entire world was in these four senses, entire layers could be peeled back as easily and instinctively as breathing. The sounds of kids playing; the sounds of brooms of small business owners locking up for the day, the scuttle of a car's wheels as the vehicle needs re-balancing. Or the sound of his billy club's grapple cable ('FWUSHHHHHHHHHH') as it rocketed through the air until it made a distinct 'CLANG' atop its anchor point, allowing him to spring towards the church's rooftop and drape himself over it. A garish gargoyle in red. To an onlooker, seeing Daredevil in Hell's Kitchen at sundown perched was not uncommon, even amusing given he hung off a giant crucifix. But years of doing this became routine even for the Man Without Fear. Years of stalking these streets. Years of fighting every kind of crazy from the common mugger, to drug dealer, to organized crook, to corrupt politician, to costumed assassins like... him.

A high pitched cackling rang through his mind as clearly as the wealthy socialite ordering her evening meal from the namesake restaurant three blocks away in Midtown. She was looking for gluten free options.

He turned his head back towards the graveyard and more specifically, her grave. He sighed. He closed his dead eyes in a heavy sigh, not that doing this did anything to block out the world around him whatsoever. Coiling and building the energy, he sprung into a huge dive and used the cable to swing away. Feeling the night beginning as he separated from the living.

[Super Chick]

<---------------------->~<---------------------->

It had been a long time. Too long, really. Matt Murdock hadn't really been on her radar as any kind of necessity, though when she thought about it that was a terrible excuse not to see a friend. And he was a friend. More than a friend once. Now it took Tony mentioning that he had Matt doing some work for him off the radar to remind Natasha just how long it had been. So, she had gone looking at Matt's life over the last year; just doing a little research on things Daredevil had a hand in. While digging, she discovered a couple of other unexpected surprises that had happened in Matt's life.

It threw Natasha to think she had allowed herself to become so disconnected from someone who had done so much for her. Of course, she supposed, it could have been because she was so unaccustomed to being close to anyone for very long without an ulterior motive. Ava was both, a choice and a motive. Tony was also both. Clint, the other Avengers. Come to think of it, Natasha realized she had no allies whom she could think of as purely a choice. As a trained spy, maybe that was something she should have expected but the woman inside of the Black Widow despised that part of her nature, Certainly it spared her many heartbreaks, but it also kept her from understanding unconditional love.

Matt had come the closest, really. The way he accepted her and aided her through that Omen business... Natasha shuddered. If she could forget that time in her life completely, she would be happy. However, as the Widow considered the brainwashing and fresh install of memories that would wipe that dark time of her life from existence in her mind, she remembered that it would also destroy the beautiful memory of Matthew loving her so thoroughly. It was her only touch of unconditional love and, thus, her only knowledge of what it must be like to be normal. Beyond that, to get another mind wipe Nat would have to return to Russia and acquiesce to their demands. That was most definitely not going to happen. Never again.

The musing of such things played across the Widow's mind as she walked away from the edge of the cemetery where she'd been watching Matt. The graveyard seemed the very embodiment of everything she'd lost and forgotten and was not someplace she particularly enjoyed. For Matt, it was a literal place rather than figurative. There lay Karen Page, the true love of his life and the woman he had never allowed himself to move beyond. He was there, hovering over her grave today much like he was many days. A chill touched her spine as she watched him. No one would mourn her so thoroughly. That would never be the Widow's fate. Natasha pushed that thought from her mind as easily as she would push an enemy over a cliff and watched Matt spring upward from the grave site and land on top of the church, perched as if listening on the crucifix. She turned and walked closer to the building and stood directly below him. He would hear and recognize her voice even though she didn't raise it above the din of the city.

"I always assumed devils inhabited cemeteries," she began, speaking upward in a normal tone. "You just keep proving my point."

[webdevil]

"I always assumed devils inhabited cemeteries,"

The voice cut through the air like a hot knife through butter. Or, more fittingly, a bullet on the wind. He stumbled mid swing but used the momentum to perfectly recover, arc his near-two-hundred pound frame through the air, and land atop the steps of the church less than a dozen paces from where the voice stood. To any but the most perceptive of individuals, his sudden change in direction would have appeared deliberate, even flashy. The voice, a woman's, he knew well from its supple-yet-soft Russian accent that always ignited a fire in his gut. And belonged to a body equally as lithe. Hard, active, immutable. Complete with sweeping hair redder than his own ginger mane underneath the crimson cowl. Not that he ever would know that for sure. Blind faith.

"You just keep proving my point."

The Man Without Fear was however not a man without emotion. He did not respond at first, but let the cable of his billy club retract fully into place and sheathing it with a reflexively graceful twirl before exhaling.

"Hello, Natasha," he said. His voice, despite the fact it resembled that of a man who smoked fifty packs a day and not one of the healthiest human beings on the Earth, sounded melancholy. As if two worlds were colliding at once.

But was it two worlds? He wondered. Natasha Romanova. The Black Widow. She was a hero like himself. His once partner. An Avenger. A lover as well. Once. Until he screwed that one up too. As he always did...

"I guess I should tell Foggy you're in town then," he said. A deflection. Small talk. The lawyer's pre-amble. He would know she would find his choice of words amusing. Or sad.

Perhaps both. The church's doors loomed taller than ever.

[Super Chick]

<---------------------->~<---------------------->

Matt swooped down from his perch in what most would see as a tremendous display of preplanned theatrics, showcasing an extraordinary amount of grace and acrobatic prowess. Natasha saw it as a man with years of training discovering he was being stalked by a former lover and changing his course on a whim. She knew him well enough to note the minute differences in what was planned and what was spontaneous in his movements. She also knew him well enough to see his hesitation as he landed before her. She didn't deny him the awkwardness he must have felt. Hell, nothing was quite comfortable when you were just visiting a loved one's gravesite, but especially not, perhaps, meeting a former love interest - even if that love interest had remained a close friend.

He spoke with reservation. Touché. "Hello, Matthew," Natasha replied in barely a whisper. It was an intimate touch of using his name without actually reaching out for him. She also had the wherewithal to speak low enough so no one but him could hear. The intimacy wasn't meant to make him uneasy. Rather, just the opposite. Still, he appeared stiff. Discomfited. Nat wanted to change that but knew a public setting such as this would require more subtlety. She listened as he deflected his unease with a comment about Foggy. She wanted to help him relax, so she flashed an impish smile to the blind man. "No matter how much time you give Foggy to prepare, his constitution will never keep up with mine at the drinking table."

The Widow dressed casually for this encounter. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail while she wore denim jeans, t-shirt, and a light jacket. The bracelets and her gear were nowhere for his sonic sight to find. She was not here for the Avengers nor SHIELD. She was here of her own accord, not for some mission.

"I've missed you," she said looking aside, obviously speaking a vulnerable truth. People passed on the sidewalk. Some stared as the redhead spoke to the Devil. Some moved passed without any apparent care. Her skilled eyes took everyone in even without her conscious attempts to do so. No one looked necessarily suspicious. Still... "Is there somewhere we can catch up?" Her little smile returned. "No strings attached. I promise."

A woman of few words, but her meaning was rarely misinterpreted unless she intended it to be. The Widow watched Matt. Would he meet her somewhere to talk? Or would he, after spending the evening with Karen, prefer to remain alone. Too often alone, Natasha thought to herself. Even Foggy would agree.

[webdevil]

Matt's body language tensed. Was there? Why did every word out of that woman's mouth have to make him feel like he was playing chess!? Even when she was being... This. Or maybe it was he who was the one playing chess. With himself.

"I - -" he began but then a cry for help shot across his ears, lighting up his dark world with flares of crimson.

"HEY! MY PURSE!"

A woman two blocks south-by-southeast of here. As the sound cut through his ears he heard all the sounds as his hearing retracted back to the fore. The restaurant life, Happy Hour, klds playing in the lot just North of here. Daredevil's body instantly became combat ready. Like a switch going from off to on in an instant. Nobody but he could hear the cry for help. No one but him.

Then his thoughts returned to Natasha. And he felt a wave of guilt. He knew exactly what this must've looked like from the outside, even in their line of work. And his eyes have never seen a single thing in over twenty years.

"- - have a mugger to stop. Ride along?" he asked, though his tone was sheepish. Again, a deflection, but nevertheless he invited her in. It was progress at least. He "looked" past Natasha and towards the cold stone of the grave. No, she would want you to let her in. One step at a time.

He fired his cable club skyward once more and let it fly. Waiting for it to catch, he extended his left arm. Daredevil and the Black Widow. God had a twisted sense of humor this evening.

A nun watched from the stained glass above. After a moment, she smiled.

[Super Chick]

<---------------------->~<---------------------->

Matthew started to say something after a brief, tense silence of consideration. She saw the reflex of his muscles and knew she had caught him off guard. Natasha would not apologize. There was too much between them for her to back away or feign regret. Whether he recognized it or not, Matt was in a predicament mostly of his own making, though this one wasn't necessarily the kind of life or death. Although, some might disagree. Was there much living being done if one lived in the past? God knows, she and Matt could commiserate when it came to tragedy. Losing the people she loved seemed as much a part of Natasha's life as breathing. She got it. She understood.

Maybe that was another reason she was here. Having lost her parents as a child, been forced to survive by killing her friends in the Red Room, believed her husband dead, mourned a child, and forfeited countless lovers, Natasha was intimately acquainted with loss. Oddly, that list was still was excluding a lot but who could say which of those memories were implanted and which were real? Thanks to Ivan, Natasha may never really know. However, whether real or imagined, the depth of feeling over those losses was very much truth to her soul. Perhaps that made her uniquely qualified to help the Devil. Or perhaps, it just made her existence very sad. Perhaps it was both.

His head cocked with his first word. Natasha knew instinctively what was happening. She'd seen it far too many times not to. Her only question was if he'd use a cry for help as a way to get out of conversation; A question he answered with a tone that proved his discomfort with his choice as much as embraced it. Good, she thought. Progress.

"I thought you'd never ask," the Widow replied. She stepped into his outstretched arm, held on, and let the Devil take the reigns.

[webdevil]

"HELP! SOMEONE!"

This was almost music to Turk Barrett's ears. Candy from a baby. Hey, shawty, he thought, dun run 'round th' Kitchen dress like 'dat less yew wanna get got!


The lowly thief cut down an alley he liked because it was easy to cut across and get lost in. With so much cover, even 'dem fancy internet cameras couldn't find him! Then he heard a sharp noise and a clink. Dammit! Now what!? Turk pulled his .38 out and looked around. Another noise. Then a glaring shadow. He looked up.

"Awwwo Muthaf- -"

WHHHHHHHHHHHHHACK!

Boots collided as the pairing Daredevil and the Black Widow came in like wraiths in the fading light. The black market pistol scattered wide down the alley as the Man Without Fear made his landing right into the old thief's chest.

"Turk!" the Red Man snarled viciously. "You picked the wrong night to piss me off!"

click.

Daredevil turned his head.

"STEP AWAY FROM HIM!" came a voice. The same one he heard cry for help. The woman who was just mugged by Turk. She was holding the gun Turk had knocked out of his hand seconds before. How did he not notice her? His mind sub-consciously removed her from the scene. She must've caught up in the scuffle. And she was pointing the gun right at Turk's head, shaking with rage, tears streaming from her face. She was terrified.

His crimson covered eyes widened. What was playing out in his mind was no longer what was before him. But back at the church. When another terrified woman held a gun to a criminal in his presence. A mad cackling that was not there echoed on the wind...

[Super Chick]

<---------------------->~<---------------------->

Daredevil carried Natasha at his side as he swung just a quick three blocks East of the church. If his carry seemed effortless, it was because both of them were well practiced in the art of swinging together. Call it muscle memory, perhaps. After all, they had been something of an item for a while in the past and that status had traversed from their personal time and entrenched itself into their professional crime fighting identities. Of course, as Matt carried her, those memories assailed Natasha as much as the cold, late autumn breeze and with about the same amount of chill. The pair still loved one another and likely always would, but Natasha knew that she could never truly work with Matt again. He was far too entrenched in his image of masculinity to provide Nat the space she needed to be an equal.

Be that as it may, Natasha allowed herself to be carried over the heads of ordinary New Yorkers as if she was some damsel in need of his assistance. Sure, she hadn't worn her costume or accessories, but she most definitely wasn't a damsel who required much of any help to get where she wanted to be. It was nostalgic and, frankly, necessary today. Matthew hadn't been himself for a while and the best way Natasha knew to keep him in her sights was to keep the ruse that she needed him, even if it was in as simple a way as an assist to a crime scene.

Without ceremony or announcing himself, as was the Devil's way, Matthew aimed and landed his feet straight into the assailant's chest as they both soared down from above. The Widow readied herself and, at the last instant, released Daredevil as he also released his grip on her. She landed with practiced grace beside the villain as he quickly met the pavement with his back. His head was spared any damage because the man was alerted a split second before of the incoming hero, but that may not be the case for long. The woman he mugged aimed a gun at the man Matt called Turk and, maybe not surprisingly, Daredevil seemed as caught off guard by that development as Turk did.

Natasha, not one for subtlety, stepped in front of the woman with the gun and began to close the few meters of distance between them. She raised her hands as if nonthreatening. "I assure you, this one isn't worth your prison sentence," she told her. "But I get it. He hurt you. Robbed you. You want revenge." Natasha paused her steps and stared at the woman, nonplussed. "If you really want him to steal the next ten years of your life, too, go ahead. I won't stop you. However, if you think your life is worth more than your purse," she shrugged, "then let the Devil handle him. Go to the police station and file a report. ID him and have your day in court. Let him serve the time for the crime. Not you."

She thought mirthlessly about her mini speech just now. Perhaps working with Tony and listening to him over-talk every situation is rubbing off on me. If that was the case, Natasha was going to consider a vacation very soon.

[webdevil]

Tears leaked from eyes contorted in panicked fury as the woman with the gun saw a redhead stand between her and the scum who robbed her. Her eyes widened in terror, the mask of fury shattered in an instant.

"I assure you, this one isn't worth your prison sentence,"

"Y-yer the - -" she began but then Natasha spoke once more, this time making steps towards her. Instinctively, the woman convulsingly pointed her hands towards the Black Widow.

"But I get it. He hurt you. Robbed you. You want revenge."

"W-WOULDN'T YOU!?" she howled, though it was clear the conviction in her voice from seconds ago had long since withered. Natasha stopped.

"If you really want him to steal the next ten years of your life, too, go ahead. I won't stop you. However, if you think your life is worth more than your purse,"

The woman paused a moment as if her strength had come back for a brief moment. Then she looked away, the gun faltered in her lands, beginning to lower.

"then let the Devil handle him. Go to the police station and file a report. ID him and have your day in court. Let him serve the time for the crime. Not you."

In this moment, the woman threw away the gun entirely and almost fell into the Widow. More than a police report, she was consumed by fear.

As this played out, the Devil that Natasha spoke of almost forgot Turk was in his grip. A grip that broke and the two-bit hood scrambled to his feet and took off in a huff.

"MUTHAR*#(@! AFTAH SKOOL SPEZZIL BULL$*@*. GOTTA - -"

plink!

Turk collapsed halfway down the alley just as Daredevil's billy club echoed when it ricocheted off the narrow concrete canvas back into his hands. He will wake up in twenty minutes or so with a goose egg the size of a tennis ball on the back of his dented skull, but by that time it would (hopefully) be in the back of a police cruiser.

Daredevil sheathed said billy club with a fancy twirl and gave Natasha a baleful, distant look.

"I- -" he tried to say, but the words got lost in his throat. He wanted to tell her everything. The parts he didn't tell her either. About the church. Bullseye. There, you gave the mad laughter a name in your head, Murdock. Happy? Natasha nearly got murdered by the madman on two separate occasions herself were it not for timely intervention or unforeseen circumstances. He really wished he could just let her in. Be a part of all this. Lord knows she was more than tough enough. But would he subjugate her to madness like him again? She'd do it in seconds - she's fought aliens for crying out loud - but he wouldn't. She meant far too much to just beg her to not be her and help a poor ol' Job like himself.

"The 17th Precinct is a block northeast of here." he said mechanically.

After that, the only noise that could be heard above the din of the city was that of a woman crying in a cold alley as sunlight gave way to the bright neons that never went away.

[Super Chick]

<---------------------->~<---------------------->

The woman did as Natasha predicted. Although it had been a risk, the Widow had stood between the victim and her revenge giving little opportunity for the woman to make a different choice other than give up her plan to assassinate the mugger. It was really a little overkill to kill someone over a purse, in Natasha's opinion, but she understood the feeling of being violated and having your sense of security ripped from you. Turk likely deserved more than he would get from a single complaint of mugging, but a death penalty should probably be reserved for those who commit more egregious crimes.

Catching the gun as it fell from the woman's hand, Natasha also steadied her to keep her on her feet. She heard the shuffling behind her. The mugger made an attempt to run that Matt quickly put down with the flick of a billy club. She looked at him over her shoulder as he turned back and announced to the woman where she could find the closest precinct. Natasha couldn't see through the mask to see his look toward her, but she recognized his other body language well enough to know what he was feeling. She stood the woman up more firmly, then leaned over and picked up her purse from the ground where Turk had dropped it. She put the gun back inside and handed it to the woman.

"Hurry," she instructed. "Go tell the police where to find your attacker. He won't wake up for a while but if you take too long, he might."

Once the woman was off at a fast walk, she made sure she turned the right way out of the alley then took Matt by the hand. "Come on," she said while beginning to lead him away. "We're going to my place." She left no room for argument, but it didn't seem Matt had any left in him anyway.

Half an hour later, they were in her apartment on the outskirts of Hell's Kitchen. She didn't stay there often, but it was a familiar place for Matt. They'd spent many days and nights here in the distant past. Nat hadn't changed much since then, and neither had her place. She'd gotten Matt some coffee, strong, and sat on her sofa next to him waiting for him to open up. She only interrogated criminals. For friends, she could be patient. However, that didn't mean she wouldn't prompt him in the right direction.

"Still the quiet type, I see," she started after taking her third sip of coffee in the last five minutes of mutual silence. She set her cup aside on the table and watched him as she continued. "So, how's life?"

[webdevil]

The Radar and the familiar scent that permeated all of "the Godless Soviet's" apartment as Natasha once used as a moniker, pinged with nothing new or out of place. The air had a stale smell to it as if the place had not been seen in a spell, even microscopic specks of dust beginning to form in the nooks and crannies that even she wouldn't pay much attention to. He found his way through the foyer and into the living space, taking a careful tug at the nearby window blinds and curtains to make sure they were closed completely - old habits for the blind vigilante - before sitting down and tearing off his mask. As Natasha walked through her open concept kitchen where he knew she was still in line of sight with him, eyeing him with a curious expression - or perhaps a concerned one, he guessed - she made coffee. The aroma was stiff - definitely not any of the brands found in any New York coffee shop or grocery store - and as it brewed, she gave more probing expressions. A non-verbal approach. To be fair, he never did make it easy for her to just open up, no matter what his feelings were.

She handed him his coffee and spoke. He quirked an eyebrow slightly. Laying on the accent thick, are we? He thought.

"You found me in a graveyard and watched me kick Turk Barrett's head in for what seems now like the nine-hundredth time. I could say it was all sunshine and roses, but that would be a lie. Besides, they were sunflowers." he said dryly. He took a sip. Definitely strong. His lips recoiled back from the heat ringing all his tastebuds and the insides of his cheeks and gums.

"But the last time we spoke was when you brought Thor to drop a hammer on the Hulk and a giant spider and help us ruin Kingpin's little New Year's soiree. And weren't you the one took quite the offence at me at least trying to be a little more swashbuckling like your fellow Avengers?" he continued, his tone equally dry and amused. Defense mechanism. Once upon a time, he used his dry sense of humor to throw off any idea of what he was actually thinking. Almost a third persona. In fact, it was a persona he took once. "Mike Murdock" he thought in his head. Never again.

Blind or not, that woman's body language bore into him probably as deeply as her eyes did right now. Not that he would know for sure. For all the desire he wanted to focus on her face, expression and all, to reach out and see in crystal, his world was forever shadowed in a monochrome melody painted in red. He did not whittle. He did not recoil. He was not afraid. But guarded he was nonetheless.

Turk Barrett awoke with a start. After a second of realizing he was awake, pain followed in the back of his head followed swiftly by the stark realization that he was lying face down in the garbage and concrete of the alley. It was dark too. Hooo, business time for Turk but laaast place to be. Goddamn club of that frickin' hornheaded pizza- -

That was when he realized he was alone. Sure, the sounds of the city greeted him - and his raging headache - but no Daredevil. Or that redheaded broad he was with. Shawty was tight doh. Look kinda familiah. Ehhh, doubt it. Probably called Popos tho. Gotta move. His aging bones creaked and ached as he rolled to his feet, the scars and muscles from muggings and beatings he had dished and dished out over the years (more dished towards, he sulked inwardly) catching up to him. Goddamn. He pulled out his phone. Cracked screen. Mutha- - fine. Fine. It's fine, he thought. Just get it to work. He clicked the on button and tapped the fragile screen. Damn technology. Gimme a goddamn rotary at this point! Well - at least it worked. He looked for his wallet. Dammit, ass covahed n' soaked throo! Fine. Pad's a cab frim here. Just flag one before Popos, change pants n' headtah Josie's. Yeah. That werks.

Turk turned towards the main exit of the alley, making his - -

The hell? He thought as he reached the end.

[Super Chick]

<---------------------->~<---------------------->

It was an art, really. Deflection. And, Matthew had nearly perfected. Natasha knew it was to save himself the agony of opening up to her in this instance. However, Matt had many other reasons to have used and needed it within his lifetime. His profession was certainly something he naturally fell into considering this skill of debate and expertise at guiding a conversation. TO her credit, the Black Widow was pretty good at seeing through this mirage of deflection even before she spent years with the man before her. Now, she assumed, she was simply as much a master of seeing through it as Matthew was in his performance.

Despite their somewhat more distant friendship of late, Natasha still felt close to the blind Devil before her. Thus, it was unnerving that Matt felt the need for presumptive deflection. He knew that he could trust her, and yet he denied her a simple answer to a simple question. Her head tilted to the side ever so slightly as if in study of his features. Of the pair of them, Matthew possessed skills that helped him comprehend a person's level of stress, their "aura" of being. Her skills of such insight were far more subtle, but they definitely not something of which Matthew was unfamiliar. She could proverbially see through the man on her sofa as easily as he could literally hear every beat of her quiet heart. He had been on the receiving end of her divination into his heart and mind on many occasions. It seemed today would be little different from their usual dance.

"I don't recall 'offense' on that occasion," she countered but allowed an upward tick of her lip to ease tension. "'Annoyed' is probably a better word."

She let her mild amusement fade as she took another sip of her strong brew. She sat the cup on the end table and relaxed against the back of the sofa. She desired to show no aggression in her body language; only care and concern for a man whom even she knew she would forever harbor deep feelings. Of course, they were feelings she would never act upon again but it was that sentimental attachment that continued to prompt her to reach out, especially at times when Matthew would not desire it. It was those times he usually needed her intervention the most.

"You look tired, Matthew." She reached slowly and attempted to take his hand in hers. She sat in silent observation of his face for a moment before invoking her petition. "Please, talk to me."

[webdevil]

For someone who handled an excessive amount of firearms on a daily basis and dolled out more punches than he ever could, the Widow's silk-touched hands ran through his body like an electric current. He fought down the urge to smirk at the irony. Another irony was the blind man seeing what his former lover was attempting. But he decided to embrace it rather than resist in this ebb and flow (she would just pry it out anyways).

After a brief exhale through his nose that made him realize he hadn't shaved in a few days again (especially after her bemused remark about their last adventure,) he spoke.

"It use to be easy, Red. Just going out in your father's old clothes, bringing his killer to justice. Poetic even. Even the gimmick of giving people their due. And then it got... complicated. So much so these days that I'm finding myself pounding an old gangbanger into the streets just to find some semblance of routine between... everything," his voice sounded like he just unloaded a thousand pounds off his back. Maybe more.

Matt didn't mention Karen. It would not be the first time he struggled to talk about her with Natasha. Last time he did was after her funeral. Knowing her though? She will eventually bring it up. Either that or one of the many things he's neck deep into these days. Or was. They never spoke about Hellzone either, he realized in a matter-of-fact sort of way. Or the Devils trying to steal his identity and reputation for their own. Or his alleged brother . *** Or his ongoing truce with Tony. Or Hawkeye and his duplicate running an Op in his territory. Or even what happened after they parted on New Year's. She might mention one of these things. Lead the witness. Matt sighed again. It seemed that despite his attempts to keep to his part of the world, her part of it kept coming instead.

He leaned back into the couch and let his head roll towards the ceiling. Is this your way of getting me to talk to her? He wondered between her heartbeats and his. Her scent running the length of his costume and into his nose, his blood turned hot in his veins. He closed his dead white eyes. Not funny...

He opened them again at the sound of Tasha's medley.

*** = Unfished Solo Thread from old account. Will intend to complete as it serves as a vehicle to introduce new OC for later gameplay use by either self or (more likely) willing other player.