It had been a quiet night, for New York. But Matt was enjoying it, careening over Manhattan as he tried out Melvin’s newest redesign of his billy clubs. So far, they’d been fantastic. A smoother grappling mechanism, a different type of cabling, more range. Enough to make freefalling from the Chrysler Building about five stories more of a rush. After zigzagging across Midtown a few times, with nothing catching his ear, he’d circled back to lap the Kitchen. A familiar obstacle course. And no noisier than the rest of town, it seemed.
Yanking the cowl back for a moment, Matt took a slow, even breath, letting his concentration sink into the old watertower he’d perched on. Drift with it, and outwards. There’d been a time when reaching out like this left him with a shrieking headache. Experience and a centre - the deep, almost-still water - that helped. But there was always so much. Rust and smog, brickdust and drying laundry on the air, the sour reek of trash. Cats hissing, rats scratching in drywall, snatches of conversations and arguments. Ringtones and music. Steps, traffic, the subway. Smell and sound and taste and the texture of the air, that rippling awareness of movement, space, contour... it all swirled together, a sensory ocean to swim through.
He surfaced abruptly, twitching as a noise burst through the rest, loud, close by. A tire blowing out. To his left, towards the Hudson. Maybe a block away. Didn’t seem like anything to be too concerned about, until a thick slam followed, from the same direction - somebody hitting something harder than they were. That, that was worth worrying over.
Those new cables got another test as Matt tore off, tugging the mask down. Another slam helped him zero in, and a couple sharp swings took him to the corner of a rooftop, his senses diving off ahead of him into the narrow alleyway below. One sluggish heartbeat, a second that was quick, but even. That dull pulse belonged to a slumped figure, out cold. Didn’t seem to be badly hurt. No blood, no grinding bones, fairly regular breathing. Gun oil clung to him, but Matt hadn’t heard any shots, not even the spit of suppressed fire - the guy must have been knocked out before getting the chance to draw. An attacker with solid hand to hand skills, then. Efficient, nonlethal. Just clearing the way to what she was really after: an armored truck, the blocky shape recognizable as his radar grazed around it.
So, a solo heist, in a neighborhood notorious for vigilante activity. An ambitious perp, maybe, but a professional. It showed, in the choice of target, the way the guard had been taken down, in her scent, even: next to the herby sweetness of lavender, he’d picked up a whiff of money, that distinctive, heavy ink. Matt recognized it from run-ins with bounty hunters, mafia captains. People collecting major payments, the old fashioned way. This thief must have been handling a considerable amount of cash for the smell to stick around like that. A considerable amount. Who was paying, and for what, exactly, those were good questions. But he’d have to catch her first.
The thief’s heart skittered, just a bit, as he stepped up to the edge of the roof. She stood her ground, though. Between him and the score. Snarking in his direction. A smile playing around his lips, he kicked off. Rebounded against a fire escape, spun into a neat landing on top of the truck. He kept his stance relaxed, unaggressive, but his grip on the billy clubs was solid. The pros rarely gave in without a fight, in his experience; Matt didn’t like his chances of talking her down, but, still, he always felt like he ought to try. On the rare, rare occasions when the opportunity presented itself. Straightening up, he gave her a smirk, cocky, meeting her confidence with his own.
“It’s Daredevil. One word. Remember that, for when they’re booking you.” The grin widened as he stepped forward, the sticks taking a spin through his fingers. “And step away from the truck, please.”
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