A table, containing a collection of the masks Matt Murdock wore when galovanting around Hell's Kitchen as his alter ego, Daredevil, was suddenly overturned. In a place such as this, in the stronghold of a superhero, one would have thought that it was a villain who was doing the destroying. That it was an act of revenge for the red-clad superhero constantly foiling perfectly crafted plots. But tonight, that was not the case. Tonight Matt himself mercilessly tore apart his hideout, pulling masks, gadgets, and the like from tables and from the walls. He wasn't worthy of the title of hero. He had killed someone, or at the very least, allowed someone to be killed.
No, not just someone, he reminded himself. He had let the father of Elektra Natchios die. The father of the woman he could swear he loved more than life itself. And despite his lack of vision, the scene had forever burned itself into his mind.
The one of the two escrima sticks his billy club broke into soared through the air in seeming slow motion. And in a similar, drawn out motion, Matt - dressed as his alter ego Daredevil - fell through the air in an obvious lunge. He needed to grab that stick, he would grab it. But as red-clad fingers moved to close around it, the unexpected happened. Sound and heat exploded from behind him, and suddenly, instead of one escrima stick there were dozens. Which one did he grab? Which one was the right one? He didn't know but he still needed to try. Fingers closed, time snapped back into place, and Daredevil hoped for the best, as the ground rushed up to meet him.
But only the worst came, his hands finding only empty air.
Suddenly, the air was thick again, slowing time itself, making it hard to move. Hard to breathe. Turning as quickly as the moment allowed, blind eyes watched as the metal cylnder found it's target - Nikolas Natchios' chest. And then, again he turned, this time his blind sight focusing on the man's murderer, Bullseye.
A finger went to the assassian's chest, and then to the indentation on his forehead that, now that he thought about it, resembled a bullseye. And as if to affirm that the trenchcoat-clad assassian smirked. "Bullseye."
Then he was gone, as if by magic.
Once more time returned to normal, and eyes shielded by red found Elektra, who was hunched over her father's body. A man he couldn't save.
A wave of sheer disappointment swept through him, and he was on his feet. Elektra at least deserved an explanation, an appology. And, depending on how things went, the truth. Moving towards her, the escrima stick that was the twin of the one sitting bloody beside Natchios' body in hand, he paused only once he reached her. And at his approach, or perhaps at the tangible silence he had broken by the subtle parting of his lips to speak, she looked up.
"You..." she started, tears streaming down her face.
"Elektra, I - "
"How could you?"
Then her father's gun was in her hands, the bullets ripping towards him in a flash of blue sound-sight. She blamed him, and he understood why. After all, he was partly at blame. He hadn't killed Nikolas Natchios, but he couldn't save him either. So in a way it was his fault.
And in shame, he fled.
And in shame, he destroyed another peice of his lair, this time knocking down the several pairs of Daredevil's trademark clubs to the floor. A table filled with boxes of micellaneous parts followed. Then rack upon rack of the red leather.
Breathing heavilly, he collapsed to his knees, a small groan of anguish escaping parted lips. He had failed, not once now but twice, first with his father and then with hers. And on both accounts he had been unable to catch the one who had comitted the crime. He had failed to do what he had set out to do in the first place when he decided to become Daredevil.
And in the dark, secluded corner of his apartment, as tears came to his eyes, something occured to him.
The priest was right.
Current Mood: discontent
Current Music: Bring Me to Life - Evanescence