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Post by Super Chick on Feb 4, 2021 19:55:41 GMT -7
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Still, there was some deflection in Matthew's answer but there was raw truth as well. He wasn't feeling the same burnout most people did when they had done the same job day after day, year after year. Rather, he seemed to long for the monotony while simultaneously feeling disgusted with it. God knew Natasha felt that way sometimes. She had lived two lifetimes as a spy; manipulating; executing schemes too complicated for most to consider let alone discern; digging up the sins that people hoped were buried as deep as their remorse. Her life had almost become monotonous in its complexities, too, but she was not currently sinking in that pit of despair. Matthew was.
"You know that I understand," she replied, still holding his hand as long as he would permit. There was familiarity with it; a simple sort of comfort. She needed to connect w3ith Matt in order to help him. Touching him was only a small part of that. The rest was less obvious. "Life has a way of throwing wrenches in what should be an easy game. Unfortunately, 'easy' has never been our lot in life."
Sympathy by itself meant little, but they both knew Natasha had lived through many of the same things as Matthew. The betrayals. The grief. The impossible choices. The circumstances weren't exactly the same, but the emotions were. It was this in which Natasha hoped to complete their connection. He knew she had felt lost, angry, afraid. She told him enough of her stories even if she didn't tell him everything.
Natasha sighed as if relinquishing control. She hoped that a connection was made and the current of their necessary conversation would flow unhindered. Regardless, she wasn't here on business and their friendship was real, as was her concern. "You have your hands dipped in too many pots, Matthew, and it's catching up to you. Perhaps, maybe you should deal with your unresolved grief before you borrow more." She squeezed his hand gently. "It would break her heart to know her ghost is haunting you like this."
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Post by webdevil on Feb 15, 2021 0:41:27 GMT -7
Matt turned his head to "look" at her. If only he actually could. He focused his senses as strong as he could, allowing his Radar to expand. But just out of reach there she was. "If only it were so simple," he said softly at first. Warm. Like he wanted to reach out a hand to her face. Cross that line, damn what came next. Before he knew it, though - as was the Widow's wont - he spoke. "How many times have my actions under this cowl ended up destroying everyone around me while I - -argh - - I find a way to go on. How many times have I watched Bullseye decide it was time for him to make it personal and yet I haven't put him in the ground? You know as well as any it's not like I haven't thought about it. I shattered every bone in his body; played Russian Roulette with an unloaded gun at his hospital bed JUST so I could smell piss roll down his leg; dressed in his own costume and beat him senseless; and just when I think I've finally dropped him off for good you get some mystical demon, alien invasions, or imposters wearing my face thinking they have MY life all figured out. They don't. New York was turned into a briquette! Ok fine - it's not Tony's fault completely, even though I'm not telling him that - but now look: Ben Urich. Chasing after murderers and thugs wearing this!" he ranted, his voice reaching a snarl and raising his mask above his shoulder before hurling it across the room, watching it bounce lazily off the wall opposite and sitting neatly behind the TV as if he placed it there for decoration. "My life is on repeat, Red. And whose next to wind up in the crosshairs? I don't think you nor Karen are - were - very pleased I haven't just ended this already! You especially since he strung you up on Coney Island; dropped you out of a seven story window trying to save Foggy before he even knew I was even Daredevil in the first place. What else does he need to do to you alone!?"He was angry. That fire in the pit of his gut. The helplessness. How he wondered what it would have been to be Bruce Banner at this moment. To just cut loose. He didn't want to say Karen's name. Not near her. But congrats, Nat, you did it. I said it. Alright!? Happy!? He felt like he wanted out of his own skin. To just get out. All this internal fury, and yet it barely registered through his body language beyond the timber of his voice and gritted teeth. These people - the Devils that Ben began calling them - are they really so BLIND!? CRAZY!? That ANY of them would escape what HE endured!? "How many times have I had Panther, Iron Fist, Spider-Man, and god knows who else wear this to cover for me!? I see the way they act when they hand the suit back. That unsettled and sober expression. And these are our friends! Heroes known the world over for heaven's sake! They deal in gods, monsters, and global terrorists, but the SECOND they put on those horns they realize just what they sign up for in just tiny little Hell's Kitchen! ONE neighbourhood! You'd think they'd all be able to handle it - and they are - but I'm not stupid. I see they want as far away from this costume and back into their own lives as possible every. Single. Time! And now I have what!? A bunch of hockey padded copycats thinking they can do better!? For what!? Because they nearly killed Jigsaw!? Oh I'm sure Frank Castle's overjoyed! Oh wait - NO he isn't! He nearly point blank shot a patrolman and I couldn't do a damn thing to stop him if he did!" He was fuming. He built up a head of steam. There was so many more things he wanted to say, but he knew she'd cut him off eventually. He stopped, arms raised, wanting to throw something else. Then after a moment, he lurched back into the sofa. He exhaled as if a plate of molten zinc was just quenched - a roiling hiss. "And that's before... Her showing up at the brownstone the other night," he added almost as an afterthought given the tone of his voice, which had subsided significantly as if he were merely looking outside and talking about the weather. They never really said her name aloud - He could hear Foggy in his head making a Harry Potter reference - in front of her. If there was one person that Natasha could possibly loathe on the same level he despised Bullseye... It was Elektra. Though he never figured out why beyond perhaps the obvious. For a split second, he perked his head up to ask, but then immediately thought better. Don't be stupid...
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Post by Super Chick on Feb 16, 2021 13:31:56 GMT -7
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The pent up anger flowed freely from Matt, an emotion he was acutely accustomed to sharing with his enemies and friends alike - albeit less violently with the latter. He ranted and raged at the fact his life had become a living hell under his mantle; how he had almost become the villains he fought after they'd done terrible things to people he cared about and, sometimes, just because the villains deserved it. He decried the audacity of other people like Ben Urich taking on similar mantles to try to be heroes in Hell's Kitchen. He openly wondered if they these new vigilantes didn't understand the trouble they were inevitably bringing into their own lives and upon the heads of those they loved.
Matthew continued, at last speaking Karen's name but only in conjunction with hers and his lamenting assumption that both women probably wished he would have given up by now. Even that slip of her name across his tongue was only because he was on a roll verbally vomiting his pent up frustrations. It was not about the woman he lost as much as his roiling emotions and the need of release. It wasn't the therapy Natasha had hoped for, but it was most certainly necessary. This outburst of anger and apprehension about how long he could - or should - continue being the Devil who protected Hell's Kitchen when so much tragedy followed in his wake was peeling back the protective barrier that held Matt together inside. It wasn't nothing. Rather, it was very much something, even if it did skirt around Karen's death in a way so that he didn't have to confront it head on.
When he finally began to settle a little, it was only with a sigh that released the vague indication that Elektra visited him. Natasha withheld the bile that rose in her soul for that wretched woman and did not allow it entrance to this conversation unless it became necessary. This intervention was about Matthew first. She'd discover why Elektra was here after she confronted the other issues, provided Matt's unenhanced lifespan allowed enough longevity to touch on them all.
His quieting gave Natasha her cue to insert her thoughts to all he had said. They were many, but her words would need to be measured. She couldn't let him divert her intent with his whimsical ranting. "Those are all legitimate feelings," she began. "There are many people like Ben Urich who cannot understand what it will cost to attempt to be a hero until it does cost them, and there are just as many heroes who cannot understand the burden of being the Devil of Hell's Kitchen until they have worn the mask. The truth is that who you are is more than a man in an intimidating costume performing surreal acrobatics to tackle and defeat criminals. You're a symbol of retribution and justice with a target over your heart and the weight of that burden is underestimated by every Avenger and would-be vigilantes who try to walk in your shadow."
She paused. Validation was one thing. Helping him to disarm landmines he'd planted in his own soul was another. Natasha sat back on the sofa but adjusted so she was facing him with her back in the corner and a leg pulled up beneath her. "You're mistaken, though, if you think either me or Karen wanted you to stop the merry-go-round. Consider it. She was always chasing the bad guys in her own way. And me? Well, you know I would have had you kill the monsters long ago - but that's who *I* am, Matthew. You're a Devil with a conscience and I'm... Well, I'm the Black Widow."
The spy finished her words almost flippantly, dismissing her lack of qualms about killing as fact. She leaned her head back and closed her eyes. "You're still my conscience, you know. The devil on my shoulder who tells me how to be good. It's ironic, really, but for whatever that's worth, you doing what you do without crossing that line made me a better person." She raised her head and looked at him. A smile tugged Natasha's lips into a knowing smirk. Her final word was as much an indication of her character changes as his attempt at a no-kill policy.
"Mostly."
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Post by webdevil on Mar 22, 2021 1:49:00 GMT -7
Time had stood still inbetween their heartbeats. Subtle, pulsing, a symphony. His world was not one of colours or lights, but it was nonetheless vibrant. Her felt he lean back into the couch with him, and then up again, eyes burrowing deep into his. Her body ran warm through her clothes as it brushed against his. Subtly. Passion whirled within him, a flame that could never truly be quenched. He raised a hand to her face, his own expression a man adrift, washed by both surprise as if stricken, and guilt. The guilt. Behind the old facade was a bewildered child. "Natasha, I- -" he began, but faltered. He was beyond words at this point. A man such as he was not always given to words, even one as silver tongued as he. No, this was beneath the masks where he dwelled. Whether it be love or lust, scion or sinner, he didn't really know anymore. He leaned in and made his move; God help him.
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Post by Super Chick on Apr 13, 2021 10:50:09 GMT -7
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The lingering silence was welcomed by Natasha who saw the weight of her words tugging on Matt's soul. He was processing them, she thought, and placing them on his own scales of truth. Nat had no illusion that she spoke the truth. It was something she was as practiced with as lying, and equally as comfortable. Both had their place and both, when properly wielded, could slice the space between a man's heart and soul. Her goal here was not to hurt, Matt. Quite the opposite really. She wanted to help him heal. She owed him that much.
His words faltered and his face subtly changed. Natasha couldn't have explained the changes in so many words, but she knew the look. She and Matthew were lovers, friends, and lovers again, though now once more in the friend zone. She knew the devil's nuances intimately, and his defensive mechanisms like they were her own. The Widow knew the second his mind shifted from contemplating her words to running from them into the safe shelter of warm, often concupiscent memories. Matthew didn't like facing his demons - no one did - but that wasn't because he hated them. More truthful would be to say that Matthew preferred to court his demons, to dance with them and keep them imprisoned firmly within his soul so they might torment him when the night was cold.
Matt began to lean toward her, his intent unmistakable. This move, she knew, was not about him desiring her. This turn toward his more carnal passions was about him hiding from the legitimacy of what she'd said. That didn't mean a part of her didn't desire the kiss that was imminent. A part of her always would. Unfortunately, as much as Matthew was a missing puzzle piece in her brokenness, he was unlikely ever to find a way to fit.
"Wait," she said softly, pressing her finger to his lips when he was nary an inch from them. She let her forehead lean and press on his. She sighed. "This isn't really what you want, Matt. I'm not who you want."
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Post by webdevil on May 19, 2021 21:51:35 GMT -7
Tasha's long finger pressed into his mouth. Cream smooth belying harsh callouses. Decelerated aging or extremely well applied skincare routine, but it was enough for him to stiffen up. Even the blind could see the irony in her hesitancy as it mirrored his own where she was once concerned once. Not so long ago... "Some conscience," he thought. She was ultimately right, he knew; and yet... He wrapped her finger into both of his hands and put it to his forehead. He exhaled deeply, his entire two hundred pound frame expanding and deflating. "I just - - If only I knew what I've done - continued to do - had any kind of sign that it was worth it, that's all..." he said. It had been quite some time since he had been to confession, or even Sunday mass. Beneath the crimson facade was a man of faith; yet one who in the moment had lost all sense of purpose. Without her. Or anyone else.
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Post by Super Chick on May 27, 2021 15:30:35 GMT -7
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It was good that Matt admitted the truth to himself and paused his kiss. It was a step in the right direction, admitting that hsi coping mechanism was not the truth. Sure, Natasha could have kissed him and assuaged his errant feelings while enabling him to continue to bury them, but that would have been a mistake that could have cost Matthew many more months of denial. Not to mention, it would have cost Nat her own current relationship with Tony She may be a spy with an implied reputation for unseemly behavior, but that didn't make her what the rumors suggested. It was her own truth, her own conscience, that guided her to stop the devil in his tracks. It was the right move despite the part of her that would always love him.
Matthew put her fingers to his head and wondered aloud about knowing if he made a difference. Her brows first narrowed then relaxed. The query was much less about his role in the world than his doubt about himself. Natasha acknowledged his turmoil but spoke with bluntness to her friend.
"I know you aren't speaking of the countless lives you saved or the hundreds of criminals you've put in jail, because those things are quite obvious even for a blind man," she said and moved her hand, still grasped by his, to his cheek to garner his attention. "You're wondering about if all of this was worth it when it cost you her."
Natasha paused for emphasis. "I get it. I've been there. But you're the only one who can decide that, Matt. You're the only one who gets to say that saving the many was worth the one. You're the only person who can decide if you want to throw in the towel or keep fighting because of the one and the many. No one can make you come to grips with your loss, and no one can make that ultimate choice for you: To keep fighting or to give up... and you wouldn't want them to."
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Post by webdevil on Jun 8, 2021 16:23:24 GMT -7
What followed that sentence hung as if Matt was hearing it underwater. After Natasha finished speaking, Matt got up and retrieved his mask from the table it lazily landed on and putting it back on. He turned to face her, wondering for a moment what she saw when the mask was on: Was it as Ben described? An entire bodily change? Or was her training so complete that it made no difference? Then he wondered for a moment if Karen once asked the same questions. He reached for the window blinds and brushed them aside - he was grateful she had large windows by New York standards - and gently pushed one of them open. He put his knee up on the sill as if coiling to make a leap but then stopped and looked back. His shoulder slumped slightly. "In a world where some of our dearest friends take death like it's simply a vacation in Cabo, it's only ever the guy dressed like the Devil who has to pay the price. Karen; Elektra; Heather Glenn; Milla --"Then he seized a moment. Oh God. Milla. Legally, Milla Donovan was no longer his wife; She had been declared insane and was locked in a dark box in Ravencroft Institute and they were since separated. He realized that was the first time he mentioned Milla aloud in years. Her parents wished for a divorce, but his own faith forbade that. Impasse. Even so, they got their wish and custody was given over to them. It was a Damocles right above his head threatening to drop and crush him underneath. Guilt. He barely gave Heather Glenn's suicide (that he learned years later Foggy AND Natasha both had a hand in driving her towards it) a second thought. And he shouldn't have. And all of this was after Karen. All of this, and yet there he was back in the church. With her. And Bullseye. Guilt. Ghosts and Guilt.
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Post by Super Chick on Jun 25, 2021 14:01:12 GMT -7
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He paused in the window about to flee their conversation. The Widow watched, unmoving from her seat on the sofa. If he chose to run away form his problems and wallow in his misery when someone was reaching out to help, that was his problem. Natasha knew he could be better than this. Hell, he'd helped her when she had a goddamned symbiote attached to her. He even took the time to talk her through other traumas in her life. But now that the shoe was on the other foot, it was obvious that Matt was a one-way street. He didn't want anyone's help. He liked living in his self-made mansion of self-pity.
So be it, she thought. That was until he spoke, acting as if he was the only person in the world to ever lose someone.
"My god, Matt. Are you so entrenched in playing the victim that you think the world is only out to get you? That it never targets anyone else? Do you really not realize how many other people have lost those they care about - including people who don costumes to work for the good of innocent people of this very city?"
Natasha was fed up. She stood and threw up her hands. "I'm done, Matt. You don't want to heal. You just want to suffer. You want to keep dwelling on what happened in the past, not the changes you can make to keep things like that from happening in the future." She walked to the kitchen, turning her back on her former lover wishing she knew a better way to be a good friend. Right now, though, it just felt like tough love was the only option because when a "hero" stops realizing that other people hurt, too, then he won't be much of a hero for long.
She knew he would still hear her even if he jumped away. "Come see me when you get over martyr complex. I'll still be here, waiting for the man that I used to know."
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Post by Judi Strange on Jun 26, 2021 17:32:20 GMT -7
"A Malicious Fever burns..In our hearts, in our veins. Your blood, my blood- All blood runs the same."
Holy Cross Church between eighth and ninth; quaint and full of ghosts and memories some good some blissfully fun as she wound down the first day of her new life, new freedom! Here leaning into the embrace of a large stone angel on the east side roof she watched below reflecting.
The great stone angel was handsome, but cold just like others she had known be the angel stone, or flesh wrapped in red. Her hand traced up his handsome cheek Typhoid knew now, as then she was just as drawn to the concept even if it was always an utter lie. "So handsome, yet so distant, self absorbed in the sanctimonious trappings..." She sighed; her mind was still working out just where she'd been for so long and of course other complex feelings best left unsaid.
Had someone found a way to lock her away in Mary's simpering little mind for longer than an instant, it seemed impossible but yet.. here she was missing a good deal of time. Not even her time with her old dear friend Mr. Morning from the "girls club" could shed any light on it- despite it seems he was the one who woke her up once more.
So tense was this particular problem, so gnawing at her that the external manifestation of this was soon seen as her beloved Angel's neck developed a crack that traced a line from neck to there palm of her hand that rested upon it.
"Poor thing, pretty things are so fragile- look at dear old Mat--"
Well, maybe the great almighty above did work in mysterious ways. From her vantage point she settled back into her broken saviors embrace all the more as she watched with steely narrowed eyes. It was indeed Hell's Kitchen own walking martyr- surely he should be up upon his cross at this hour. She knew with his senses It wouldn't take the devil long to sense her, her unique body signs- the heat, the staccato drum of her passionate heart..but perhaps priming the pump would work just as well if not more.
She waited of course when he was at the apex of his swing, she wanted to see the affect if any at all registered.. maybe he knew where she had been, if not who she had been..at the highest arc of his swing she called out into the wing with a soft, lilting purr of feral mixed with enticing.
"Bless my soul o' Merry Christian, is it time for sermon so soon?"
Of course the term had been the one she used on him from the very beginning, for he bled his faith, as dual a creature as she for in many ways..they were the same...more or less. She went back to caressing the cheek of the angel she had cracked to see if he had a mind to come to an impromptu Mass.
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Post by webdevil on Jun 27, 2021 0:21:37 GMT -7
This was not the first time Natasha was annoyed with him - and it would not be the last. Deep down he knew she was right, but something inside him did not want to give that up. She did understand pain more than he felt she did, also true. But that wasn't what was bothering him. So what was? He reached the arc of his swing and made a move to anchor to the building opposite when he was met by a sudden impact that caught him unawares. Night had fallen, the air a cold breeze, but the pain of the winds did not compare to twin knives entering right into each of his shoulder at strategic points. Only a handful of knives could cut through his suit like that. His Radar was scrambling trying to register what was now perfectly mounted like a coiled snake. And then the dominos in his mind fell amidst the adrenaline: Typhoid. He gasped for air as the wind struggled to re-enter his lungs before he felt the sensation of falling take over. Whatever she was saying he didn't hear over the pain in his shoulders, she disabled his ability to move his arms forward, but the neighbourhood was still able to help. He backrolled mid-air, his body a crescent moon so he could assert himself back into the top. He wondered if that Flag pole was still -- GOT IT!*CRACK* the pain of his right shoulder completely dislocating at the sudden stop a mere two stories before the ground was enough. As luck had it, he managed to underhook it so even dislocated, falling was not gonna happen at least. But where was she now!? "MARY!?" he bellowed hoarsely, fighting the pain between his shoulders. OOC NOTE: Action taken with permission from Judi Strange [/font] At this very moment at the law offices of Nelson and Murdock, Franklin "Foggy" Nelson, the other half of the legal duo, slammed the phone down in panic. Turk Barrett just called from the 15th precinct claiming he was looking for a lawyer and protective custody. The simple fact that Mr. Barrett had any hope of thinking Nelson and Murdock would even defend his low level criminal hide was too hilarious to even contemplate. Nevertheless, he had a right to an attorney and thus Foggy answered only to find he made claims to be assaulted by a female ninja. Only in Hell's Kitchen, he thought. Foggy even remembered what he said to Turk. "Yeah, right around the time you got a broom handle broken off in your ass by Deadpool. I'm sorry Mr. Barrett, but I'm gonna - -"Then the other line began to ring. Foggy looked at his phone: Ravencroft? Oh no, did they get Melvin? Matt was worried about this. He put Turk on hold and answered it. "Nelson and Murdock, Franklin Nelson speaking," he said. The administrator was looking for Matt specifically, but relayed the message to Foggy: While it wasn't Melvin Potter that had turned up, Mary Walker was deemed missing from their premises approximately forty-eight hours ago. Foggy tried to keep his cool, but he suspected even the administrator sensed his disquiet. "T-thank you, I'll pass it onto Mr. Murdock when he gets in. Yes, goodbye," he said and turned over to Turk. "Mr. Barrett, I'll be happy to take your case. I'll be on my way over momentarily," he said in a clipped, businesslike tone. "Thanks, Mistah Nelson. I appreceeeight it," Turk replied over the phone and after an awkward goodbye, he scrambled like a madman into Matt's office. As luck had it, he was on Twitter and saw that Daredevil had been spotted leaping around the Kitchen with a red-headed stranger that Foggy immediately recognized as Natasha. The Black Widow. Kicking the crap out of Turk Barrett no less. Oh the irony of it all. As he hi-tailed it down the corridor, he didn't even bade the secretary his customary goodnight and probably gave her quite a startle. He'll apologize later. Grabbing the desk phone, he pulled open a small drawer that had a list of emergency contacts and began to dial it. He waited as it rung. "Come on, Natasha, pick up...."
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Post by Judi Strange on Jun 27, 2021 5:25:48 GMT -7
"A Malicious Fever burns..In our hearts, in our veins. Your blood, my blood- All blood runs the same."
The blades found the warmth in the Matthew in ways few women seemed to ever find, this pulled a wider more gregarious smile that bordered genuine. She kissed the angel statue goodbye leaving bold red lip prints near where she has broken the neck. "Such is love," she offered it it and the falling angel devil as she stepped off her perch to freewill and join her favorite devil she knew.
From Mattew's vantage the pole had stopped the fall but then it also just savagely bobbed and wavered as Mary landed on it none to gently. "No applause Merry Christian?" She moved down the pole to him easily, but also did not try to stop how each step made his perch more precarious. "It's a very odd day to-day baby. I seem haunted by my past- first an old customer, now you.
He could hear her, but there were so many.. Impressions of her all around, and of course the area felt like a sauna. She knelt and pulled out two stilettos and tilted her head. "So many ghosts today, I wonder if I kill them all again will I ever truly be free of the past-our past." She raised both blades, a wonderful - near poetic idea popped into her head. perfect, it would also test to see of Mary was tucked in her little room and unable to stay her hand...
"Pay attention baby, this is our special time...Station one, Daredevil is condemned to death... Station two daredevil carries his cross" Theatric, of course but she knew matter would recognize the stations of the cross even as she..well reused them.
At each station the left dagger would seek to nick a finger, to make him drop unless he could thwart each stroke.
As she spoke, the temperature rose, she acted feverish, the musk and salty scent of someone who has been running- perhaps forever form the time she went out the window accidentally at Matthews own hands. "I missed you Devil, even if I don't know where we've been." If Matthew knew, he might say before he fell- she really wanted to know who had been using her all this time.
"I-It's you! It's that woman!! Oh, god no-- Have to warn..Myself..."
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Post by Super Chick on Jul 1, 2021 16:16:58 GMT -7
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The Widow was nonplussed when Matt simply left. It was entirely like him to run from confrontation when it came to personal issues. He compensated for this cowardice by running headlong into danger for other people. The irony of such things was not lost on Natasha but they would be forever lost on Matthew. He could see no further than his reflection in the mirror, and what that relayed to his consciousness was that he was the Devil of Hell's Kitchen, a man who prided himself on meeting fear head on and overcoming. He dared not look too far beneath that steely surface lest he notice a narcissistic tendency to see only his own tragedies and how, despite his experience proving otherwise, that he was the only one who suffered.
She drew a glass from the cupboard and retrieved some tap water to soothe her frustration. It wasn't vodka, but it would make a momentary distraction for her hands. She sipped and thought of all she and Matt had been through, together and separately. She, too, had lost a spouse. She, too, had endured the pain of feeling that she was somehow to blame for the bad things that happened. Even presently, as memories would flood back from random past experiences that the Red Room had erased, the Black Widow would feel remorse and regret. But she dare not dwell on it, and that was what separated her from Daredevil. He dwelled far too much on things he could not change. One day, perhaps, he would focus more on the things that he could and face forward. Only forward.
She had been standing at her sink for many minutes, staring off into the distance when her phone rang. Natasha picked it up and saw the caller ID belonged to Matt's law offices. She presumed it to be him, thinking of something to say to rebut her comments after he was safely away. Nat sat the phone back down and moved away from it. Unanswered and going to voicemail. She had said all there was to be said. Let Matthew stew in his mind, hearing her words sear into his brain - for what little good it would do. Natasha pulled her legs up under her and held her glass.
The devil would just have to wait.
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Post by webdevil on Jul 4, 2021 19:02:26 GMT -7
The machine went to a machine that only had one word: It was Natasha's heavily laden Russian accent, but Foggy had no time to just leave a voicemail. He quickly slammed the phone down and dialed again. "Come on, Natasha. Come on. The odds of you getting sucked into an Avengers level whatsis in the span of two hours is not that great!" he muttered. It began to ring again. What if Mary already got to Matt? What then? She could light him on fire with literally a look! She was easily as good a fighter as Elektra - oh great, another ugly thought - and easily four times as crazy! Machine again. God dammit, woman! He wondered for a moment if he should just dial the number into his phone and call... No. This was Matt's emergency line and even Natasha would not forgive him for violating that (she'd probably also just break his phone and he needed that.) He took a heavy sigh. If there was a God out there, he needed a big hand right now. He picked up Matt's phone one last time and dialed. Ring.
Ring.
Ring."Come ON!" he snarled into the receiver, panic beginning to overtake him now. Then the other end clicked... Mary weighed approximately 140lbs. Because of this, the added weight began to strain even the pole's structure as she leaned in closer and closer. Her voice began to echo and scramble in his head as it began to get warmer and warmer. The negative space to the concrete below was about three stories. Not a good fall. He glanced up in her general direction and managed to get a beat on raising her knives as she talked utter nonsense. A distraction. Until she spoke again as she closed in. That was when Matt remembered his billy club's emergency flare. Gnashing his teeth he began to snarl. "Forgotten," he spat and with that ignited the flare. At that close range she would be at best singed, at worst, temporarily blinded, allowing him to free fall. Down. Down. CRACK!The pang of shattered glass scattered throughout as the roof of the oncoming car concaved to break his fall. He was grateful the driver wasn't hurt as his body screamed as if it was on fire from the impact. He rolled onto the street, the glass sticking into the kevlar weaved titanium fibres of his suit. A crowd began to form, phones out and recording everything. DAREDEVIL!
HE JUST FELL THREE STORIES!
LOOK! UP THERE!
CRAZY NINJA BITCH!
IS THAT ELEKTRA!?
NAH, DUMBASS! ELEKTRA WEARS RED!
WHO!?
GET HER, DEE DEE![/font] The voices. The noise. The heat. The pain. How he managed to stagger to his feet and get over down the alley was in it of itself impressive, if not a bloody miracle. He was hurt. His legs gave out as he stumbled towards a back alley wall, not entirely sure where he was, trying to get his bearings from the fall. He put the burned out club flare in his mouth and grabbed his right shoulder. "GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!"
The shoulder popped back into place, but the effort made him sag on the wall.
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"Tall, lean and Gamma Green- that's me!"
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Post by Judi Strange on Jul 5, 2021 6:14:29 GMT -7
The sear from the flare, the moments of blindness allowed the Martyr to order to fall, even if in that moment she could not see, she could hear the satisfying sound of dull meat hitting metal. “Forgotten, baby—don’t kid yourself, you're burning up with the same fever I am...” she purred warm and intimately. How very like a man—all men in her experience; after all had he not put her out the window in his quest of selfish wants? Would they even know each other today so intimately if he hadn't nearly killed her? Was the Devil any better than the rest? Mary thought so, but she was so very much the type to let men like him beat her down to agreeable piles of nothing.
She leapt, and swung herself to land along the edge of a smaller building as her vision cleared., her hand running along the smooth straight line as she moved further form the filming onlookers. Matthew always played rough, it was the blood of his father in him she was sure. She caught sight of the blood her first kiss of the night left and now fully sighted again she tracked him form her higher vantage point as silent as his tomb would be.
Ah— There he was, as he went for his shoulder she couldn’t resist to kiss and make it better. The Sai gleamed in the light as her painted nail tips curled around the guard as she drew it.
Normally he could deflect this easy, but in a. Way perhaps he usually failed because he wanted this, needed this between them. As much evil as he stopped, he crafted with his own merry little hands and he needed penance.
Feeling his mind she set about overloading his senses as he felt her all around him, a cadre of hands and lovers adoring him as all men wanted in sultry passionate caress- Then she thew the Sai seeking to pin the hand to the shoulder and perhaps the wall. Granted, it wasn’t “Stations Of the Cross” but the night was young, and her church was nearby...The Lord apparently really did work in mysterious ways....
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