#the devil without fear

[the-devil-without-fear]

Altar Boys | Steve and Matt

Once the Superhero Registration Act came into effect, the government came down hard on Nelson and Murdock. Half a dozen federal agents entered their offices a week after the registration deadline, brandishing weapons and hearding them all into the cramped reception area.

They didn't have a warrent, but they didn't need one. Thanks to the SRA, all they needed was reasonable suspicision that a person was harbouring a powered individual. And it was considered public knowledge that, two years ago, their firm had worked with the Devil of Hells Kitchen to take down Wilson Fisk. 

Their office was torn apart. Furniture was searched, files were confiscated, and one by one they were interrogated. Matt played the role of a confused blind man well; well enough to avoid detection, at least, but he wasn't sure how long he'd be able to pull that off. It was only a matter of time before the agents came back, and if they had any reason to suspect that Daredevil worked at Nelson and Murdock, all three of them would end up in prison. He would make that sacrifice in a heartbeat, but there was no way he'd force that choice on Karen and Foggy.

So he hung up the suit. It was painful, to hear everything that went on in the streets of Hell's Kitchen but be unable to do anything about it. Drug deals, murders, human trafficking...crimes and atrocities were taking place around him every night, and the guilt was eating away at him.

Church was his only solace. Matt had taken to coming to Saturday night service as regularly as he could, considering how busy the firm had become. There was always at least a dozen people in their office, seaking legal council in regards to the SRA. Mass helped take his mind off it, and off of the devil costume hidden away in his dad's old trunk.

The church was relatively full, and an usher guided Matt to his regular seat near the back of the room. He was hoping to take confession later, if Father Lamdon wasn't busy.

[a-man-outof-time]

Dance with the Devil // Matt & Steve

The last time Steve had been in Hell’s Kitchen, he’d been riding around the entire island trying to get a job as a longshoreman and getting laughed off the docks for his efforts. Now Steve could see the container ships waiting silently along the waterline as he emerged from the subway tunnel, and he took a moment to watch the lights of the city flicker along the Hudson before turning inland to find what he was after: an honest-to-God Irish pub with honest-to-God Irish food.

If someone had called him right then and asked why the hell he was running around Manhattan alone in the middle of the night in search of a cottage pie rather than making one himself, he probably couldn’t have answered. Or wouldn’t have, rather; truth was, if he cooked the cottage pie he remembered, it wouldn’t be much more than mashed potatoes made from spuds he’d cut the eyes off of while his mother browned what scraps of beef -- mostly fat -- they’d saved up for the occasion. Not only was the frugality frivolous anymore, but making it by himself wouldn’t be half as satisfying, anyway.

So he wanted someone else to make him dinner. Sue him. 

Unfortunately, the friendly stranger he’d chatted with on the train had apparently had a very different idea of what “authentic Irish pub” meant. Steve arrived at the address to which he’d been advised only to find a menu featuring spaghetti and burgers, typical bar food, but not one to be deterred, he pulled out his phone and started searching for something more his style as he ambled along the streets of Hell’s Kitchen. Three more so-called pubs later, Steve finally gave up; it was getting late, and if nothing else, there was probably a steak and some potatoes he could grill up back at the Tower.

On his way back to the subway station, though, the Hudson caught his eye again, and, spurred on by nothing more than the juvenile impulse to see if he could go somewhere he probably shouldn’t be without getting caught, he wandered down to the docks and into the nearest maze of shipping containers. The area was strangely quiet in the evening, especially now that he’d left the nightlife bustle behind further inshore, but not in a particularly comforting way; the metallic walls and dull echo of his footsteps made him feel trapped, followed...

Wait. Those weren’t just his footsteps.

He stopped walking. The footsteps continued, picked up speed, and he whirled on the spot to see three very displeased figures racing toward him.

Whoops.