Dedicated to _CampSPQR_

21 Years Later

...

     "Bless me, Father, for I have sinned," Matt Murdock – now thirty years old – says, his soft voice penetrating the silence within the confessional booth of Clinton Church. "It's been, uh...It's been too long since my last confession."

     Matt sighs, his fingers fidgeting with the rose-tinted glasses in his lap.

     Eventually, he continues, "My dad, he used to come to this church back when I was a kid. He was a fighter. Old school. Boxer. Lost more than he won. Had a twenty-four-thirty-one record before he, uh..."

     Matt falters, his eyes unblinking as he licks his lips and swallows.

     "But he could take a punch. Jesus, he could take a punch."

     "Language," Father Paul Lantom warns.

     "Sorry, Father," Matt apologizes. "Yeah, guys he went up against used to say it was like hitting oak. And nights when he was outmatched, my dad's strategy was to let 'em hit him till they broke their hands."

     He chuckles, "He never got knocked out, my dad. Knocked down, sure. But he, uh, always got back up. He was always on his feet when he lost. Every now and then, though, uh..."

     Matt's voice trembles as he lowers his head.

     Taking a deep breath, he pushes on, "Every now and then, he'd get hit and...something inside of him would snap. My grandmother, she was the real Catholic. Fear of God ran deep. You'd have liked her. She used to say, 'Be careful of the Murdock boys. They got the Devil in 'em.'"

     Matt laughs, though he quickly sobers and closes his eyes, his breath growing heavier, "And you'd see it sometimes...in the ring. His eyes would go dead...and he'd start walking forward real slow...hands at his sides, like he wasn't afraid of anything."

     His body now racked with tremors, Matt sighs and struggles to contain the tears in his eyes, "And the other guy, he'd see that look, and he'd try to get away from him. Nah. My dad, he'd catch him and...trap him in the corner. Let the devil out. Yeah."

     A tear breaks free and trickles down his cheek, "Now, I didn't understand it, you know? What he was feeling deep inside, I didn't understand it. Not back then."

     Matt smiles and shakes his head, though his smile is now tainted with anger, one that slowly bubbles its way to the surface.

     "But you understand it now?" Father Lantom asks.

     When Matt doesn't answer, Lantom prompts, "Perhaps this would be easier if you tell me what you've done."

     Matt's eyes roll ever so slightly into his head as his face hardens. After a moment, he slides his glasses into place, the red lenses concealing his typically gentle brown eyes.

     "I'm not seeking penance for what I've done, Father. I'm asking forgiveness...for what I'm about to do."

     "That's not how this works," Father Lantom replies as he turns to look at Matt through the screen. "What exactly are you going to do?"

...

     "Help!" a young woman screams as she thrashes in the arms of her captor. "Help! Help me!"

     "Hey! Hey!" Turk Barrett shouts as she is overpowered and corralled with two other women. "Shut up. I'm getting a thousand dollars a head for y'all. So, you be quiet...I let you have a bucket. You don't..."

     Turk lowers the bucket and produces an electrically charged baton from beneath his dark leather jacket – which matches his skin tone – causing the women to scream. Rolling his eyes, Turk grabs the nearest woman and plunges the baton into her stomach, shocking her. Turk's lookout merely watches, eating his sandwich with his back to the water as the men responsible for the girls' kidnapping curse in Russian and toss the women inside a metal shipping container.

     "No. Please, no," one of the women sobs, but Turk just laughs.

     "Scream all you want," he taunts. "Come on, let me hear you scream. Scream loud."

     Crouching on the shipping container behind Barrett, a vigilante clad in black waits for his opportunity to strike.

     As one girl comforts the dark-haired woman who had been tased, Turk scoffs, "Nobody gives a shit down here."

     He laughs, though his amusement quickly dies when one of the women looks over his shoulder and screams. Turk whips around just as the vigilante leaps from the shipping container and tackles him to the ground, knocking the baton from his hand. Despite the mask that covers his eyes, the vigilante easily sidesteps the Russians as they race toward him.

     Twisting the first man's arm behind him and slamming him into the ground, the vigilante pivots, punching the second Russian in the chest and face in rapid succession. When the second man raises his fist, the vigilante twirls under his arm, trapping his fist in place as he kicks him in the groin. When the second Russian stumbles, the vigilante pushes forward, brutally dealing blow after blow until the man finally collapses against the shipping container.

     As he falls, the first captor charges toward the vigilante like a raging bull and punches the masked attacker in the face. The vigilante staggers but quickly regains his footing, a low growl emerging from between his clenched teeth as he repeatedly slams his fist into the Russian's jaw. As the vigilante is tackled to the ground, Turk gingerly rises to his knees and attempts to blink the black spots from his vision.

     His vision slowly clearing, Barrett watches as the vigilante flips the first Russian onto his back before launching himself onto his feet. When the Russian tries to stand, the vigilante whips around and kicks him in the face. The trafficker attempts to return the favor, but the vigilante grabs his leg and locks it in place. Bringing his fist down, the vigilante snaps the Russian's lower leg and tilts his head when he hears the unmistakable click of a barrel being loaded.

     Using the Russian for cover as Turk opens fire, the vigilante snatches the baton and ducks between two of the large containers. Planting his boot against one of the containers, the vigilante's momentum allows him to skip from foot-to-foot, carrying him up and out from between the metal crates. Keeping his pistol raised, Turk hesitantly searches for the vigilante, whose footsteps echo across the freight containers.

     As the air ripples behind him, Turk spins on his heel and fires, but no one is there. Walking silently behind the human trafficker, the vigilante stops, then tosses the baton, which ricochets from container-to-container before hitting Turk in the face. Barrett falls to the ground, unconscious, and the baton rolls right into the vigilante's hand.

     Without a second thought, the vigilante tosses the baton, knocking the sandwich out of the lookout's hand and causing him to fall into the water. The masked man then turns his attention to the young women, who huddle together in fear as he approaches them.

     When the vigilante speaks, his voice – albeit gruffer to protect his identity – is identical to that of the man who previously asked forgiveness of God within the walls of Clinton Church.

     "Head towards forty-eighth," Matt Murdock directs. "Stay in the lights. Flag down the first officer you see."

     When the girls hesitate, he slams his fist against the container, "Now!"

     As the women follow Murdock's instructions, Turk regains consciousness and immediately crawls toward his gun. Before he can fire, however, Matt launches himself into the air, rotating multiple times and landing on top of Barrett's arm. He wrenches the gun from Turk's hand and pins him to the ground, striking him several times with each hand until his breathing is labored, and Barrett's face is bloodied.

...

     "Foggy. Foggy. Foggy."

     Matt is woken the next morning by the automated female voice of his phone, and when he answers, Franklin "Foggy" Nelson says, "Good morning, sunshine!"

     Matt blinks several times as he leans back on his pillow, "What time is it?"

     "Half past get the hell up. Let's go. We gotta meet the real estate agent in forty-five."

     As Foggy navigates the streets of Hell's Kitchen, he hears someone groan on the other line and asks, "What was that? Was that a moan? Do you have somebody in bed with you? The paralegal. Is it the para over at—You know what? Never mind, I don't wanna hear about it. No, I do wanna hear about it! What was she like?"

     With no intention of telling Foggy that he was the one who groaned, Matt carefully shifts his weight and answers, "Violent."

     "I gotta get the blind thing going," Foggy replies, pouting. "It's so unfair. Oh, hey! Real estate agent, not your type. Very homely. Might be genetic. No need to be charming. And she kinda told me she thinks blind people are 'God's mistake.'"

     "That's a horrible thing to say, Foggy."

     "I know! In this day and age? Alright, shake it. I gotta go bribe a cop."

     "Ah, Foggy—"

     "Kidding, NSA, if you're listening. But seriously, yeah, I gotta go bribe a cop."

     Foggy ends the call and proceeds to ambush Sergeant Brett Mahoney at the 50 Street subway station's entrance. When Brett spots Foggy, he sighs and reluctantly continues up the stairs.

     "Officer of the law...Defense attorney. We're supposed to be enemies," Brett claims.

     Foggy smiles, "First off, we've been enemies since we were four, Brett, so let's not blame it on career choices. Secondly, I'm not a particularly good defense attorney, so helping me is like helping yourself. And finally, these are for Bess."

     Nelson offers the brown grocery bag in his hand, which Brett eventually takes.

     Upon inspecting its contents, he sighs, "Please stop giving my mom cigars, Foggy."

     "What? She'll outlive us all. Look, I'm not asking you to do anything immoral. Just give me a heads up if something, you know, interesting walks through your door."

     Brett snorts, "You're right. It ain't the careers."

     When the sergeant turns and walks away, Foggy calls, "Thanks, buddy!"

     Brett merely waves his hand in response, his mother's cigars in hand. Emitting a long-suffering sigh that is rather at odds with his thirty years of life, Foggy turns on his heel and heads off to meet with the real estate agent in hopes of securing an office for his and Matt's budding law firm.

...

     "You've got a reception area, a conference room and two offices," Susan Harris says as she leads Foggy from room to room. "Corner suite has a view of the Hudson. You can flip a coin with your partner for it."

     "Uh, he can have the view," Matt replies as he enters the office.

     When Susan spins around to face him, she quickly notices the attorney's red-lensed glasses and walking stick, "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to—"

     "Of course not," Matt assures her, and the real estate agent chuckles nervously before extending her hand.

     "Susan Harris. Midtown Property Solutions."

     "Matt Murdock," he replies without shaking her offered hand, which she drops with an awkward laugh and a small curtsy.

     "She just curtsied. It was adorable," Foggy says.

     Matt smiles, "Well, it's nice to know chivalry isn't dead. Susan, would you mind walking me around the space?"

     "Of course. My pleasure," she replies, immediately linking her arm through his. "As I was telling your associate, this office was barely touched by the incident, which is why it's on the market already. The neighbor's weren't so lucky."

     Foggy shakes his head as the pair walks past, knowing Matt is both taking the opportunity to assess Susan's physique and decide whether his partner was telling the truth when describing her.

     "'The incident'? Is that what we're calling it now?" Matt asks, referring to the Battle of New York, which took place three years prior and was fought between the Avengers and an alien race led by Loki, the Norse god of mischief.

     "Well, it sounds so much better than 'death and destruction raining from the sky, nearly wiping Hell's Kitchen off the map,'" Susan counters.

     "Shorter, too."

     When Susan bats her eyelashes and smiles at Matt, Foggy intervenes, "Owner figuring in the delightful view of cranes and scaffolding? Feels like we're getting pre-incident prices."

     "They're a quarter of what they used to be," Susan claims. "Hell's Kitchen's on the rebound, Mr. Nelson, and in eighteen months, you won't be able to rent a broom closet at this price point."

     "We'll take it," Matt states.

     "We will talk about it," Foggy retorts. "Because we're not sure we can afford even this palace, unless we make some changes to our current clientele policies."

     Matt turns toward Susan, "My partner and I are having some disagreements over the direction of Nelson and Murdock. I believe we're here to defend the innocent."

     "And I believe the innocent includes everyone not yet convicted of a crime," Foggy adds, before leveling his gaze on Matt. "You know, as the law states."

     "He tends to use fancy terminology."

     "And my partner fails to recognize that, as defense attorneys, we're never gonna be able to keep the lights on, waiting on a horde of innocent souls to stumble into our loving arms."

     Matt chuckles, "At this point, I'd settle for just one."

     The two attorneys smile at Susan – who has been watching their exchange with amusement and mild discomfort – unaware that fate may lead them to their first client sooner than they expected.