NOTE: This takes place prior to Daredevil #0

DAREDEVIL	KINGPIN	SAMMY SILKE	RICHARD FISK	BEN URICH	J. JONAH JAMESON

Revenge is a kind of wild justice, which the more man’s nature runs to,
the more ought law to weed it out.
-Francis Bacon (1561-1626)

Clinton Mission Center
Hell’s Kitchen

Daredevil sat, cramped and alone, in what pathetically passed for an office. It was small, poorly heated and barren of life. Definitely far from the comfort he was accustomed to on a daily basis. He pulled his scarlet mask back and let the crisp air splash his sweat soaked face; the sensation sent a chill up his spine that contracted his sore back muscles for a scant fraction of a second. It felt strangely good, almost sexual.

Everything over the past hour was a giant blur, making it hard for Matt to accurately reflect on what had happened this morning. Having bullets narrowly buzzing by your head by inches would tend to do that. All he recalled was that he left the Shocker bloodied, broken and beaten in the middle of Manhattan and that was all that probably mattered in the end. The details of how weren’t important.

Where he did come up short on was a reason why he had ended up here, of all places, to hideout and let the situation on the streets calm down. His mind had ran on autopilot, his body was fueled by adrenaline and he took off as fast as he could in what he had thought was a random direction, and by the time he had realized where he was headed he was already here. Maybe it was for console, maybe it was for solace. Regardless it would probably be wise, he considered, to take this brief moment of peace and attempt to refocus before the next person that got seriously injured and crippled in the middle of a Manhattan street was himself.

He could feel her presence all over, not just this room but also the entire building. For the next twenty-two minutes he sat silent listening to the warm and compassionate words of wisdom she imparted to anybody who asked for it, letting her generosity comfort him. Matt was at a loss to figure out how a woman filled with that much empathy could have possibly given birth to a man who was filled with so much anger that it threatened to burst the skin that cocooned it and no matter how hard he tried to expel it from his soul he couldn’t escape it or the guilt coupled with it.

Matt smirked; maybe that explained why she became a nun and he a crime-fighting vigilante who made a hobby of punching people very hard in the face.

His muscles involuntarily tensed when he realized his mother was finally making her way back to her office, back to him. What should he do? Should he stay? Or vacate before she realized her son had ever been there? Matt’s indecision cost him the chance to act when the door opened. Sister Margaret Grace Murdock looked great; she moved with an elegance that her arthritis failed to impede. When she clicked on her desk lamp there wasn’t so much as a flutter in her heartbeat when his scarlet form suddenly revealed itself across from her.

Sister Maggie smiled at the unexpected sight of her son. Her greeting died on her lips when her experienced eyes noticed that something heavy weighed on his mind. "Matt? What’s wrong?"

"Read the Bugle this morning?" Matthew asked, his voice sounded tired.

"No, I don’t really get much time to myself around here," Maggie replied. "I fear this mission would fall apart without my constant attention."

Matt went on to recap for his mother everything that had transpired over the past few days. When he laid it out all at once it seemed impossible to comprehend how much happened in so little time.

"I…I don’t know what do anymore," he finished. "Ever since Karen passed away I feel like everything important to me is slipping through my fingers like grease." Matt dropped his head into his hands. "I’m losing control, stumbling around in the dark without direction without anybody left to lean on. I fight and I fight, but it never seems enough. I always end up alone and, if Foggy…" he let the statement hang, it was unnecessary to finish the thought.

Maggie’s heart sank. She made her way over to her son, dropped to her knees and gently cupped his face with comforting hands. She could clearly see the pain that masked his features. "I know it’s overwhelming, Matthew, and you’re doing the best you can, but you’re hardly alone. It must feel like God’s abandoned you, but he hasn’t…and neither have I. All you have to do is come here. I’ll support you. You don’t have to shoulder the burdens of this mad world alone. You never did."

Matt’s eyes began to water. It felt like his caged emotions were burst like a water balloon jammed with a sharp needle. Unable to reign them back in he collapsed into his mother’s arms and cried.

Daily Bugle
Midtown

"Dammit, Jameson!" Ben Urich raged as he stormed out of his office onto the main editorial floor where the focus of his anger, the Editor-In-Chief of the Daily Bugle, looked over the shoulder of the political cartoonist. "This article is insane!"

J. Jonah Jameson looked up at the unkempt reporter with a preoccupied look on his face and shouted, "What the Hell are you talkin’ about, Urich?!" totally unaware of any possible transgression he was making.

"You’re twisting the truth to make it fit your own warped perceptions!" Ben’s arms flailed wildly, the Sunday Morning Edition that was clutched in his nicotine stained grasp crinkled and tore as it whipped around. "There’s not a single ounce of credibility in your claims," he shouted as he pointed an accusing finger at his boss. "This is supposed to be the news, not a crusade!"

In the three hundred twenty-one years since Sir Isaac Newton published his famous book that revolutionized modern science with the three basic laws that were inspired by a simple apple, scientists had gone on to identify and define numerous laws that are written into the fabric of the universe, essential for the whole of creations existence. And even after all that time there are still new laws waiting to be discovered and understood.

But if you worked at the Daily Bugle for any amount of time you were uniquely aware of a law that was just as important to the universe, similar to the Law of Gravity, that science remained ignorant of: it was impossible for a day to pass without a destructive collision between these two Bugle giants.

Jameson calmly pointed right back at Urich with the stubby, unlit cigar stuck between his fingers. "Don’t be ridiculous. The news isn’t just about the facts, Urich, it’s also educational, especially the editorials." He popped the cigar back into his mouth and slid it to the side. "It’s supposed to be sensational and emotionally provoking."

"You’re editorials are a factless crusade."

Jameson paused with an incredulous look on his face. "You’ve said that already. What’s your point?" Jameson spread his hands like the conductor of a grand opera. "This is the best selling edition since Spider-Man webbed up that guy and killed him!"

"Oh, right, ’I told you so’. Real mature, Jonah!" Urich slammed the paper down onto some poor proofreaders desk. The startled guy scrambled to catch the other papers that had previously been sitting on top of his desk but now floated down to the floor in disarray.

"Best. Selling. Edition." Jameson raised a finger with each word to emphasize his point.

Ben sighed, his head bowed and his arms dropped limply to his side. "You do remember that was a hoax, right?" Jameson had already turned and was yelling at the Advertising Manager and paid him no attention whatsoever. "Just remember you had to print a retraction!" he called out, but if Jameson heard him he didn’t respond.

The bewildered reporter pulled off his thick black-framed glasses and wiped them clean with a stained handkerchief that he’d fished out of the back pocket of his rumpled brown khakis.

"Um, Mister Urich?" a man said from behind.

Ben quickly and awkwardly slid the glasses back onto their normal perch and spun to confront the origin of the unrecognized voice. Standing there in sharp contrast to his disheveled attire was a man in a clean, crisp black suit, black tie and short cut blonde hair.

"What do you want?" Ben asked, not in the mood for more conversation.

"Do you have an office or somewhere private we can talk?"

"Depends, who are you?"

The man reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out a leather wallet. "Special Agent Derrick Wardell." He flipped the wallet open to expose the white FBI badge concealed inside, then flipped it shut and returned it to the pocket. "So, about that office?"

"Yeah, sure, follow me," Ben replied, confused but resigned to whatever foolishness this would become.

Wardell silently complied and trailed behind the reporter through the bustling news floor to an office on the perimeter of the floor. Ben allowed the Agent to enter first and then shut the door behind them. Derrick sniffed the still-smoky air. "Isn’t there a no-smoking ordinance in New York State?"

Ignoring the question Ben crossed his arms defensively. "What’s this about?" he asked.

Derrick stuffed his hands into his pants pockets and dropped his butt on the corner of Ben’s desk, much to the irritation of the reporter. "You’ve been asking a lot of questions about Sammy Silke over the last few days."

"Why do you care?" Ben asked, careful to not give up everything he knew, if anything, without knowing why it was he was he was divulging it.

"My assignment is with The Fisk Squad. We monitor the activities of Wilson Fisk’s alleged criminal organization. Now, to be perfectly honest, a normal day at work for me consists of beating Minesweeper for the trillionth time or sleeping at my desk soaking my folders with drool. As you can imagine, from your coverage, that it’s nearly impossible to make anything substantial stick. He covers his tracks too well."

Ben grew agitated. "And your point is what? You were bored, so you felt compelled to come down here and bust my ass for doing your job more successfully than you?"

Agent Wardell didn’t rise to the bait. "You’ve been making waves and we’d like to know why you’ve been making them over a nobody like Sammy Silke. What do you know that we don’t?" he asked accusingly.

"I don’t have to reveal my notes or sources to you."

"Well, I’m afraid you do," Wardell produced a blue tri-folded packet of paper and handed it over. Ben didn’t need to open it to know it was a subpoena, he’d seen enough of them over the years. He read it anyway; just to make sure he wasn’t getting duped. "Either you give me what I want, or I take you and your notes downtown with me and then leave you with nothing."

Ben rubbed the bridge of his nose in defeat and sighed. "Fine."

New York University Medical Center

Richard Fisk stood at the end of the hospital bed with his hands resting on the footboard. He wasn’t sure why he felt compelled to be here; by all rights it would’ve been a smarter decision to be nowhere near the hospital but he’d ignored better judgment and made the trip to observe the broken man that occupied the bed, silently admiring the physical signs of the brutal beating he had received just hours ago. Richard had first hand knowledge of the devil’s reputation, yet there was always something humiliating and pitiful that resonated strongly in his soul in seeing just how completely Daredevil reduced strong, tough men to weak invalids, dependent on breathing machines and IV’s just to live for another five minutes.

"You stupid son of a bitch," Richard spat, not at Shotgun but at himself for depending on a man who, while effective, drew far too much attention to his handiwork.

Richard promptly left the assassin’s room after his curiosity and disgust soon faded, his two bodyguards in tow, and silently passed the pair of NYPD cops stationed outside the door without a single acknowledgement of his presence.

From down the hall an observer patiently waited for Richard to leave his sight before pulling out a cell phone and pushing the speed dial. The other line picked up after three rings.

"Yeah, it’s me. Tell the big man his son just left Shotgun’s room."

Midtown North Precinct
Midtown; Bordering Hell’s Kitchen

Lieutenant Bert Rose tried his damndest to not care, to avoid getting drawn into the hype like the rest of the slack-jawed morons that had gathered outside of the Captain’s office. The veteran cop snickered; if they were trying to look inconspicuous then they failed pathetically as they battled over position to catch a better glimpse of their boss’s odd visitor. He knew who Bryce was talking to without having to look but, simply put, he wasn’t impressed. Sure, Rose guessed that a man of his stature, reputation and attire would draw some, if not a lot, attention, as evident by the jerks around him. But he had seen too much in his time, he had even worked with that crimson doofus before to be enough of a rube to get ensnared by the mystique.

In the end he should’ve figured it wouldn’t have been long before his effort was hastily thrown to the wind when his idiot partner rolled over in his chair.

"Hey, Rose, is that Daredevil?" Sgt. Jonathan Parker asked in a whisper.

Bert rolled his eyes and replied in his regular crotchety tone, unconcerned with drawing attention to them. "Oh, for the love of God. Who does it look like, Parker? Santa Claus? Jesus, how did you ever earn a badge with those ’amazing’ powers of deduction of yours?"

"I dunno," Parker answered sheepishly, then rolled his chair back to his desk. "I’ve never seen the guy before. ’Sides I heard you worked with him before, so I figured you’d know for sure."

"Yeah, well, it was only a couple times. Believe me, I don’t wanna make a habit out of it."

The aluminum blinds crashed down in a clatter, effectively and immediately putting an end to the spectacle after five straight minutes of errant stares into the office. With a couple grumbles the small crowd broke apart as the officers returned to their immediate duty.

Inside the office Captain Garth Bryce apologized as he turned back to his visitor. "Sorry, ’bout that. We’re supposed to be professionals and, despite living in a city with the Avengers, Fantastic Four, Spider-Man, Defenders, Luke Cage, Iron Fist and the rest of what seems like every other superbeing in the world, there are still some who get all giddy like a school-boy when they see a superhero."

Daredevil smiled. "It’s alright, Captain. If I didn’t want some attention I wouldn’t wear a devil costume. So, anyay, are we square with what happened this morning?"

Bryce waved it off as he dropped his butt onto the corner of his desk. "Yeah, don’t give it a second thought. I smoothed it over with the Chief who was quick to dismiss it. He has enough headaches as it is without getting involved with the shit costumed vigilantes drag with them."

"That’s encouraging," Daredevil said with a snicker. "Really reinforces my reasons for getting out of my comfortable bed at night." Daredevil joked but he knew, as a lawyer, that arrests made on the authority of vigilantes were tricky business. The law had a ton of rules in respect to dealing with the rights of criminal suspects that vigilantes by their very nature undermined. Chances were if you were just some unknown street punk with a semi-good lawyer you could be back on the street the very next day claiming a violation of due process. That’s why, at times, a good beating could go a long way to keeping some of them straight.

"Go ahead, keep it up, hornhead. I may have to call up the Chief and convince him he may have acted prematurely to dismiss your assault on the Shocker," Bryce shot back with a grin.

"Then I better take off before I say something that gets me into more trouble." Daredevil made his way to the office window that served as his entrance into the office. "Just don’t forget who brought down Shotgun when you reach for that phone."

Bryce reached out and grabbed Daredevil’s arm. "Hang on, one more thing. Urich called about twenty minutes ago. He sounded pretty pissed; I guess the FBI confiscated records he had accumulated during his investigation into the mob murders. He said that poking around some cat named Sammy Silke attracted their interest and wanted to know what he learned. Ben suspects that Silke was the one who hired Shotgun to kill those mobsters in an effort to start some sort of gang war in a bid for the big seat. Ben was gonna try and get back into this, but Jameson tied his hands. So he wants to know if you wanted to follow up on a tip he just got."

"Sure, what is it?"

"According to one of Ben’s contacts Sammy Silke was seen going into Josie’s about half an hour ago. So were about a half dozen other known Captains from a few other crews. Looks like they’re having a meeting to try and reorganize now that Shotgun has been apprehended."

Daredevil nodded his consent. "There’s been enough blood split. If this war it true then I better put a stop to it before the public gets drawn into the crossfire."

Fisk Industries
Manhattan

He sat in silence. Not at all looking forward to the confrontation that awaited him but destiny wouldn’t be denied and there would be a reckoning.

Wilson Fisk’s cold gaze never once wavered from the sight of the Chrysler Building that stood a few blocks away, even when he heard the door to his office swing smoothly open behind him. The soft footfalls betrayed the sole entrant’s presence. His stone veneer finally cracked when the visitors weight expelled the air from the cushion of the small leather chair across from the massive desk. Silence continued to hang in the air, leaving the visitor to stare awkwardly at the wide back of the black leather chair.

"You impetuous fool. What did you hope to gain?" Wilson asked, still yet to turn his chair.

"Oh, please, you can’t tell me that you don’t know. I’m trying to protect you," Richard directed to the back of the chair. "Mom has been waiting for this day for a long time and I refuse to see her disappointed again."

WHAM!

Wilson’s meaty hand struck the desk’s surface with vengeful fury. Caught completely off guard by his father’s quickness Richard jumped back in his chair, startled, as Wilson’s face was instantly mere centimeters from his. The leather chair the Kingpin’s body mass vacated was left to spin slowly on it’s own behind the crime boss.

"Don’t you dare imply to know anything about my relationship with Vanessa." Wilson’s hot breathe washed over Richard’s face and the look in his dad’s eyes was enough to caution him about the words that would leave his mouth next.

"I’m sorry if I presumed too much," Richard apologized sincerely, "but don’t think that I don’t know enough that my actions were performed in ignorance."

Wilson dropped his massive 450-pound frame back into his chair, his sudden rage subdued by curiosity. "What could you have learned in your drunken stupor, surrounded by lowlife, imbecilic thugs, to pretend to know anything? You spend your day wallowing in the bottle, pathetically taking pity over how you’ve failed in your life."

Richard snickered, an act that bothered Wilson. "If that’s what you think then you’re the one who’s ignorant. I may have, at first, tried to escape my self-loathing by drinking; the weakness I felt inside was overpowering. The son of the Kingpin was a fucking joke, laughed at by those who abuse their wives and kids with their whore mistresses, money and their fleeting status. But when those fucking animals weren’t laughing at me, they were talking. Unfiltered and uncensored like I wasn’t even there." His disgust hung on every clipped word. "After all, what was a loser like me gonna do about it?"

"So, I sat there in that repugnant bar with filth not even fit to wash my underwear absorbing every little detail and rumor like a sponge, allowing their ignorance to keep their gums flapping. You’d be surprised what people know that they shouldn’t, but remain totally oblivious to what they know actually means. Months in and months out, on that same damned stool, putting together the big picture with the pieces they inadvertently gave me. If any of them had the brain power to do more than breathe, kill and jerk off, they’d have figured out your grand agenda like I had."

The Kingpin guffawed but without the confidence he tried to muster. He didn’t doubt that there was a morsel of truth in his son’s words…or so he hoped it was just a morsel. "And your solution to my ’grand scheme’ was Shotgun? To leave a sloppy, bloody trail for the NYPD and, more importantly, Daredevil to track? How did you think you’d benefit from that?"

Richard’s face darkened. "I didn’t do it for me. I did it for us. Did you really think I would take your retirement and ignore it? The ’Kingpin of Crime’ is retiring and tying up loose ends by filtering information down the line to the Feds so the Government can do the work for you. I mean, how else would nobody soldiers know the information they knew and be willing to turn that over without fear of retribution on them and their family?" his father’s granite face faltered. "So I let them talk and the Feds did as they’re ought to do, but I made sure those rats would never talk long enough to implicate you as the true informant."

Wilson chewed the inside of his cheek, seething, as his son continued.

"This family finally has the chance to be whole. It’s everything I’ve wanted, it’s why I created the Rose and partnered with freaks like the Hobgoblin, to see your empire destroyed. Without it, you’d have no choice but to come home. And now that my hope is reality I’d be damned if this opportunity gets screwed up now. I hired Shotgun and pointed the finger to that shitstain Sammy Silke. Let that pompous fool take the fall for it."

Silence quickly filled the air between them once again. A full minute and half passed before the elder Fisk broke it. "Bravo, son, it appears I grossly underestimated you."

Richard refused to let his father see the satisfaction he gained from the compliment. "I’m not looking for your praise," he lied, "I just want to leave this life behind. So, now that the air is clear and all the cards are on the table, the only question left is: What do we do now?"

"For starters I will continue with my plan, without your misguided interference." The malice in Wilson’s voice wasn’t strong but the hint was caught and understood. "When I’ve finished tying up those ’loose ends’, as you put it, I’ll be free to leave this career behind."

Richard leaned back in the chair and studied his father’s face. "As hard as I’ve fought for this in the past and have wished to believe it, I can’t help but want to call ’bullshit’. I know you too well to know that you’d miss this life too much. That you’d feel too tempted to reclaim your legacy like you’ve done before."

"Of course," Wilson admitted, "but as much as it could be seen as an acknowledgement of weakness, I love your mother. It unfortunately took her issuing an ultimatum to force my hand and evaluate my priorities. Despite your fears I can quit cold turkey and revel in my empire’s destruction knowing that nobody could do this job better. I may miss it, or I find I may not, but either way I will enjoy the comedy found in the chaos that will ensue in my absence and the headaches it will give my enemies to sort it out."

Richard chuckled. "I think you’ll find more to life that’s worth enjoying. I’m glad we’ll get the chance to explore that before it’s too late."

Wilson didn’t buy the words that left his mouth next for a moment, but his promise forced him to say it and ’believe’ it. "Me too, son. Me too."

I’m forced to take solace in the fact that Foggy is being watched over by family members who love him to make me feel better about my own obvious absence from his side. Yet, another bold move by the neglectful Matt Murdock I’m sure they’re all thinking. But today’s idiot, Sammy Silke, is preventing me from being a caring friend. Sure, I guess Foggy would scold me, tell me stop being foolish and kicking myself because we both know all too well what happens when gang wars flare up on my streets. When wannabe heirs try to wrestle away control of an empire too vast for their comprehension and too big for them to manage.

I honestly don’t know how Wilson does it; part of me is envious of the big man. Not only would he find the time to crack the skulls of criminal scum at night but he’d find a way to be in court every morning organized and professional. Probably even show up an extra hour early for good measure so his partner wouldn’t have to shoulder the burden of an entire case ’cause he took too many Vicoden the night before and forgot to wake up.

But Wilson is a professional. He sticks to high-class crimes like high-priced escorts that hang on the arms of governors, high-stakes gambling in renovated warehouses and he keeps the streets clean of drugs and thugs who make it a past time to forcibly remove the hats off the elderly with their fist. Silke is not a professional and is unaware of the unwritten rules Fisk and I understand. So if Silke wants to play in the big league then it’s time I introduced myself and explain those rules. After all, it’s only fair he knows what it is exactly he’s getting himself into, and knows how much I’m not in the mood to deal with this bullshit.

I resent him for putting me in this position but I have to focus 100 % on him right now and deal with my partner later. Otherwise the distraction could make me lose focus and get myself killed. That wouldn’t help me or Foggy any what-so-ever. My mother taught me that I cannot do this on my own, that I need my friends to remind me what regular life is and that I need to be a genuine friend back. After I’ve done my civic duty and blackened a few eyes I’ll go back to the Hospital through the night to be his support as much as he’s been mine and to pay him back for his selfless sacrifices over the years.

And I’ll be damned if Sammy Silke fucks that up.

Josie’s Bar & Grill
Just off South St. by the Brooklyn Bridge

Porky eyed his cards with suspicion. Maybe this time his hand was strong enough to win the rather large stack of multicolored chips gathered in the center of this table that had just grown by nine more blue chips, which he added with a casual flick of his wrist. They were his last nine chips of any color he had left to contribute. His lips parted and the gray smoke generated from the Marlboro Red stuck in the corner of his mouth billowed in to the air free as he spoke, "Call. Let’s see what you got."

In all honesty the former bodyguard for the bookie named Fixer had tuned out the normal raucous of the seedy bar as he focused on his cards in a failed attempt to earn a couple hundred bucks, so when he noticed that his partner, Sam, had neglected to throw down his cards it took Porky a minute to realize that the bar was silent and every occupant still.

When Porky turned to the front entrance, where everybody else’s attention seemed to be focused, he discovered the reason for the sudden tranquility standing in the door: Daredevil. His gut feeling warned him that what was bound to happen next would be far from peaceful.

"Sammy Silke," Daredevil growled, his tone more than conveyed his intentions to the packed bar. "You can either volunteer his whereabouts or I can beat your cooperation out of you," his extraordinary senses scanned the room, hoping that if Sammy were here his body language would single him out.

He got nothing.

"Frankly, I’ll settle for the latter." Daredevil added.

From the middle of the bar a man stood from his previously occupied chair. "Sammy ain’t here, shit head, but he heard you was gonna be. Offered us a quarter-mil to crack open that horned skull of yours," he proclaimed while his hand crept towards the .38 Special tucked into the back of his pants. "I’m thinki--!" If there was more the thug was going to add then everybody present would remain ignorant of those words as the next thing to leave his mouth were four and a half teeth, a waterfall of blood and a string of undecipherable curses.

When the fingerprint smudged, greasy JJ&S glass Daredevil had thrown at the guy to smash his mouth crashed to the floor eight seconds before the guy followed suit, it may as well have been the green flag at a NASCAR race as the entire bar erupted into a pandemonium immediately upon the shattering crash.

Fisk Industries
Manhattan

Ding!

The large stainless steel doors of the modified freight elevator parted to reveal the cool damp air of the underground parking garage to the three occupants inside. Wilson Fisk took a deep breath of the wet air as it washed over his face before stepping out of the luxurious elevator; the metal bottom of his walking stick clacked with each step. His two guards joined the five others that lined the sides of the elevator to end at the black stretch limousine that sat running idle, waiting his occupancy.

It had been far too long since Wilson had allowed himself the opportunity to entertain the thought of hitting the city for personal reasons, especially for the simple, yet enjoyable task of watching a movie. But this evening Fisk sought to rectify that error as he had rented four solid hours at the Zeigfeld for himself so he could watch an advanced screeners copy of ’Star Trek’ that was sent directly to him from J.J. Abrams, in complete peace and solitude. To say he had been anxiously waiting for this day to come would be an understatement; it had been a grueling month and a half of anticipation and he was truly excited for a few moments of diversion.

Wilson was half deep in thought, mentally debating whether or not to have buttered popcorn or ’Sour Patch Kids’, when the sudden squealing of the rapidly spinning tires from the limousine caught him by surprise as it pulled quickly away from him before he entered it. However, who he saw standing cockily on the other side of the departed car, with his sling-supported arm hidden under a silver trench coat that wrapped over his shoulders and pale yellow sunglasses that looked ridiculous against his tan skin and dark hair, surprised him the least.

"Hey, tubby, how’s tricks?" Sammy Silke greeted the criminal mastermind.

pfft! pfft!

Two silenced muffled gunshots came from behind Wilson and in the next instant blood splatter sprayed out of the guards heads from new geysers punctured into their skulls. They both dropped to the concrete in a lifeless thud, dark red halos slowly grew around their heads.

Sammy smirked and gave the pair of dead bodies a short glimpse. "I believe somebody famous once said ’I love it when a plan comes together’. I think it was a president like, Teddy Roosevelt or some shit," the dapper thug proclaimed as he took two steps towards the Kingpin. "Your time is over, fat ass, and so’s that leotard wearing faggot you’ve routinely failed to destroy. I’m taking my turn now."

Wilson smiled sinisterly at Sammy Silke’s bravado, even as the five men circled him with their weapons drawn. It was apparent to the crime lord that he had underestimated two men this afternoon. "It was George Peppard, you buffoon. He was a great actor for nearly twenty-years before he drew fame from that ridiculous TV-show you misquote. Nothing you’ve planned has come to fruition today."

"Well, King-baby, we’ll see about that," Sammy boasted.

"Yes," the Kingpin warned, his voice cool and firm, "you will see."

The complete lack of intimidation on Wilson’s face began to unsettle Sammy, causing a slight touch of doubt to cross his mind at the intelligence of making this move now. Where Sammy had gone wrong was failing to take into account Wilson’s education in numerous martial arts, including sumo wrestling, in which he’d learned how to delicately control his considerable mass.

Four times a week the crime boss trained against the best fighters his money could buy, which was a considerable talent pool. If that wasn’t enough there was the time he bested the Red Skull in personal gladiatorial combat while the fascist occupied the cloned, enhanced, body of Captain America. He routinely stood toe-to-toe against Spider-Man and Daredevil. Simply put, there wasn’t any imaginable way in this reality that the Kingpin was going to be the slightest bit threatened by this pathetic show of force.

CRACK!

Wilson’s walking cane split the air in a blur so fast it was almost invisible right until the crystal handgrip came to a rapid and sudden stop in an amazing impact, much like how a meteor slams into the earth, against the nose of one of the gunmen who had killed his guards. Cartilage and nasal bones were smashed into powder and the maxilla bones shattered into over four dozen tiny pieces. The fortunate part was the guy never noticed the moment his life came to an end.

The sheer quickness and utter brutality of the attack startled the remaining attackers, much as how Wilson had hoped it would, and he took advantage of their confused pause to continue his assault. His massive hand struck like a rattlesnake and gripped the neck of the poor man most unfortunate enough to be the closest with the vicious strength of a pitbull. Possessed with the raw power to bench press half of 650 pounds, the hand had little trouble lifting the struggling 185 pound man off the ground and mightily squeeze that neck like it were a tube of toothpaste. The attackers face instantly flushed red and the pressure threatened to pop his bulging eyeballs free of his skull. Five seconds later his soul fled his body with the last of his struggled breath.

Two of the lingering three that stood directly in front of Wilson recovered enough to raise their .45s but their chance to open fire was obstructed by the body of their strangled partner that crashed into them both with enough force to bowl them over and knock the air from their lungs. Catching their breath became the least of their concerns as, in an incredible defiance of gravity, the Kingpin’s powerful leg muscles propelled him three feet into the air. Each foot crashed down like God’s almighty vengeance square onto their chests, pulverizing their ribs and squishing their innards like tenderized beef under a 450-pound hammer.

Wilson’s predatory gaze fell onto the last of the would-be Caesar-like assassins who was frozen in holy terror of the awesome massacre he witnessed take place in a few short seconds. Fisk stepped one foot out of the bloody gore, turned and threw his cane like a spear, burying the gold tip three inches into the man’s chest. Blood soaked the man’s blue shirt, turning the spot purple. He looked down in shocked disbelief at the ornate hand carved wooden cane that poked out of him as the man who speared him strode over and gripped the other end. The last of his cloudy thoughts figured that the Kingpin was going to simply pull the cane free, but the grin on Wilson’s face foreshadowed a different intention before he twisted the crystal handgrip to trigger the taser installed in the buried tip.

150 watts carried over 100,000 volts poured freely into the man’s stiffened body, cooking his guts and frying his skin with the amount of over four and a half times the power of a police issued M-18 Taser. The taser powered off exactly eight seconds later, the battery drained, and everything went still. The lifeless body, with a brain now the consistency of jelly, slid off the end of the came and quietly slumped to the floor.

Wilson Fisk turned with one last task, determined to finish this circus of carnage by destroying the man that foolishly started this, only to find Sammy Silke gone. Instead, in the place where Sammy once stood was a large puddle of what Fisk could only have imagined to be urine.

"Pitiful," Wilson spat in disgust and anger over Sammy Silke’s apparent cowardice to face him with courage and settle this dispute with the life of either man.

He looked down at his bloodstained clothes, then to his gold TAG Heuer watch and cursed at the time. By the time it would take for him to go back up to his penthouse, clean up and change into a new suit Wilson would have killed an hour and a half of the time he had rented at the theater. "Damnation!" he hissed. He would make it a point to square his affairs with Silke and make him pay for the extra expense this would cost him to regain that lost time.

Daredevil’s red boot heel clipped the underside of an onrushing assailant’s chin as he performed a back flip into a one-armed handstand in the center of a shaky round table. As the hoodlum collapsed to the filthy, unwashed wooden floor with two chipped teeth and a bit tongue missing, a red reinforced steel baton cut the air like a buzz saw inches over his falling head. Being upside down was hardly a hindrance to Daredevil’s unparalleled accuracy as it cracked another hooligan dead between the eyes; the large welt that would grow on the man’s forehead would stay there for three painful weeks.

Without a moment’s hesitation and shrug of his arm Daredevil let his momentum carry himself into another half-flip that put him back on his feet in a display of uncanny agility that was flawless enough to make a feline jealous. Daredevil drove his crimson fist into a balding ruffian’s chest, the other slammed across the face with an open palm punch that sent the man’s glasses flying and came damn close to breaking his jaw.

A stocky goon charged Daredevil from behind with a hunting knife that he intended to bury into the vigilante’s kidney, totally unaware that it was impossible to sneak up on a guy who could see every angle around him at once. He wouldn’t get the time to dwell on how the hero had known he was coming as Daredevil’s boot smashed against the side of his head, the result of a spin kick that came way too fast to defend against.

Sitting seven tables away from the eye of the storm, Porky and Sam knew better than to leave their seats at the table even as the others vacated to join the melee when all Hell blew up around them. That was because several years back they had crossed paths with Daredevil and he had given them a righteous beating that had lingered longer in their minds than even their own mother’s birth date. So they opted to site this fight out along with the roughly half-dozen other guys wise enough to avoid a two-day hospital visit.

Porky grunted as Daredevil kneed a black guy wearing a red bandana and large headphones in the gut, then grabbed the doubled over man by the nape of his neck and his belt, throwing him over eight feet across the bar where he crashed down onto a table and broke it in half. He had to admire Daredevil’s technique as he dodged and deflected several surprisingly quick punches thrown by two guys, who still looked as if they were trapped in molasses next to his smooth movements.

As a former practicing boxer, Porky could clearly see part of Daredevil’s influence in how he moved and delivered a devastating uppercut to the tall drunk in front that dropped him in one shot. Without a turn of his horned head, Daredevil drove an elbow into the sternum of the other guy behind him wearing a red button-down shirt with yellow suspenders, then his forearm snapped up and hammered the guy’s nose flat with the back of his hand.

Daredevil somersaulted to the right to avoid being hit with a glass full of whiskey thrown at him, retrieving one of his batons in the process that couldn’t have been recovered sooner as one of the last of the dwindling combatants drew a pistol and fired. BANG! Daredevil shifted his body weight, his lightning fast reflexes reacted in the milliseconds it took for the hammer to pull back and drop, the baton already in motion before the bullet had left the barrel and it met the object in mid-air, deflecting it away from where it intended to go.

In the next heartbeat Daredevil had closed the gap between him and shooter and attacked.

CRACK!

Daredevil’s baton swatted the gun out of the shooter’s hand, breaking all of the guy’s fingers as a result, and his forehead slammed so powerfully against the guy’s nose that would leave two black bruises under his eyes and make it very inconvenient to breath for the next month.

Sam whistled in respect of Daredevil’s efficiency and he pushed the brim of his fedora to free his sight of obstruction. Daredevil didn’t appear to waste more than two, maybe three, strikes on each attacker. The vigilantes hyper senses revealed the secrets of a man’s anatomy like a gossipy girl with a megaphone making him more than capable to exploit any little weakness he detected. Coupled with his knowledge of pressure points and various other techniques to dismantle the human body, every punch Daredevil threw could be thrown with deadly purpose and devastating accuracy.

"Yahhhhhh!" a lanky man with wild brown hair screamed as he charged Daredevil with a broken pool cue. Daredevil hooked his foot around the leg of a chair and flicked it into the air where it crashed into the gangly man’s chest. At least the body of an already unconscious thug cushioned his fall.

Daredevil then froze in a defensive posture as he scanned the room for more immediate threats. Ten slow seconds passed in the newly hushed bar before Daredevil relaxed and shoved his batons into the holster strapped to his left leg. He nimbly maneuvered around the human obstacle course, few stirring as agonizing groans meagerly escaped their lips, as he made his way to the bar where the only person who ignored the entire clash sat, nursing a shot of Johnnie Walker Blue. Daredevil wondered how the man could afford a shot of the expensive whiskey.

The seemingly uninterested man that the six-foot, two hundred pound hero walked over to visit had witnessed him in action too many times over the years to continue to be impressed by him anymore. It had ceased being spectacular to him. Hell, he bet that if he had watched the fight he could’ve choreographed every move performed, and he knew better than to look a gift horse in the mouth, because if Daredevil wasn’t here specifically for him then he took it as a blessing and left well enough alone.

"Evening, Turk," Daredevil greeted with a slap to the gawky black man’s back as he joined his often time, mostly unwilling and physically coerced, informant at the bar. "So tell me, was Sammy Silke even here at all?"

Turk ignored the question as he spun the shot glass, full to the rim with liquor, between his thumb and middle finger for a few seconds before slamming the scotch down his throat. His eyes were locked straight ahead, square on a bottle of SKYY Vodka, and they never wavered as he eventually answered. "Nah, man. He hasn’t been here in about two days. If you heard otherwise then you was set up."

Daredevil nodded, his suspicion confirmed. "Yeah, that’s what I thought," he replied as he reached into a pocket sewn into the holster and slid out a folded fifty-dollar bill. He placed it on the counter, leaving two fingers firmly on it as he added. "I’d appreciate it that the next time you see him you give me a call. If you don’t…then I guess I just paid for your next shot of Johnnie Walker Blue."

Turk reached for the fifty and pulled it from under Daredevil’s fingers. "Mother fucker, more like paying for a new pair of pants since you made me ruin these," he retorted with a smirk.

Daredevil chuckled and quietly left the bar. Armed with his new money, Turk waved over Josie, who had been washing the same glass for ten minutes now in sorrow for the damage to her bar, and ordered his next shot.

Somewhere in Lower Manhattan

Sammy Silke clumsily fumbled with his keys as he fought to single out the one that would open his house, but the panic that settled in over his botched attempts to knock off both Daredevil and the Kingpin had made the task difficult. It also didn’t help that he only had one good hand to shake the right key free from the others and then fight to get it into the lock to further frazzle his jittery nerves as he expected an assassin’s bullet any minute now.

There was a fraction of relief in his heart when the knob turned and he finally gained access fifteen seconds after he arrived. It had felt like an eternity.

"Oh, thank you, God."

He pushed the door open with frantic energy and the door swung free from his grasp and slammed against the wall with a loud bang. Sammy jumped involuntarily at the noise. "Fuck, me," he cursed as he fought to cram his heart back into his chest. Without bothering to waste the time to shut the door, he raced through the house and up the flight of stairs to the main bedroom on the second floor. He needed to pack his bags and get the fuck out of dodge, pronto.

Sammy didn’t get more than two and a half steps into the spacious and dark room when something hard slammed unexpectedly into his gut, sending the anxious man to the carpeted floor, doubled over in pain. If it mattered to him at the moment he would’ve thanked his mother for choosing such a comfortable rug to break his fall. Four rough hands jerked Sammy off the floor and forcibly slammed him onto his knees. Silke’s breathing became short and far, his heart pounding like a tympani and his eyes squeezed shut in anticipation of the two bullets he’d surely get in the bread pan for his troubles.

"Open your eyes, asshole," ordered one of the goons holding him firmly in position with a grip that would leave a hand-sized bruise on his shoulder. Sammy fluttered his eyes, reluctant to obey the command and unsure at what he’d see should he open them fully.

He did and the room was dark, but he could make out that the sliding frosted glass doors of his massive walk-in closet were slid open to reveal a figure obscured in shadow, save for the sliver of a tattered green cloak that poked out into the moonlight allowed in through the large bay window. The figure took a step forward and Sammy could make out more of his features, including a weird hairstyle that was swept up into points on each side of his head. It reminded Sammy of Ace Ventura: Pet Detective.

"You’ve got some balls, my ambitious friend," Leland Owsley stated as he fully entered the bedroom and strode to Sammy’s kneeling body. "It is unfortunate for you, that is, that you lack the intelligence, ingenuity and resources to see your dream fully realized."

"So, what’s it to you, freak?" Sammy spat, slightly angered. He would regret his outburst as the Owl struck him with a furious blow to the head that sent his tinted glasses flying from his face to slam against the wall across the room. Leland reached down and gripped Sammy’s chin, four sharp talon-like fingernails scratching his perfect skin as he twisted Sammy’s face to meet his own.

Their eyes locked.

"Why, I’m going to help you. I’ll give you the tools you need to perform your little coup and eliminate the Kingpin," the Owl explained. "All I want in payment for my services is a controlling share of your brand new empire. I’m giving you an option you lack right now: you can either agree and survive with prosperity, or you can die and have your body discarded callously into the city dump. If you say ’yes’ right now then it’s a done deal and Fisk will die. Understand?"

Sammy wanted to tell the Owl to take his terms and shove them up his unwiped ass, but he had to admit his choices weren’t looking good right now. "Yes." Sammy fought to get the word free from his tightening throat. "Deal"

The Owl smiled. "Excellent. You’ll see soon, my dear friend, that I’m a man who can deliver on his promises," Leland proclaimed with glee as he released Sammy’s chin. His plan had worked out to perfection, as he now had the perfect scapegoat in his pocket and the betrayal he had planned for the poor gangster already formulated in his brain.

New York University Medical Center

As Matthew stepped out of the elevator at the proper floor, he realized how anxious he was feeling now that he was finally here. He had tried to make it back as quickly as humanly possible, and if he came straight here in his Daredevil guise he would’ve, but after he returned to his Brownstone to shed his scarlet costume and take a warm shower to wash the sheen of sweat and stench off his body, his secretary Pam from ’Nelson & Murdock’ had called. Even though it was a day off a settlement had been reached in his class-action lawsuit, which then lead to him taking a cab by the office and only delaying him further.

His stick unfolded then swept the ground in front of him as he walked, careful to detect any obstacles that could’ve potentially threatened to trip the blind man. Matt ignored the sympathetic glances that he could feel come from those around him as he made his way unobstructed down the hallway to Foggy’s private room. There wasn’t any possible way in this world that Matt would have allowed his friend to share a room with a stranger, not that his partner would be awake or aware enough to notice the inconvenience.

Matt could tell from the moment he was deposited onto the floor that neither of Franklin’s guards were by his side, but he was confused as to the identity of the woman that was present in his room until he paused just outside the door and he remembered who the vitals belonged to. It didn’t hurt that his nose detected the Chanel Number 5 that saturated the air. She always wore this perfume and Matt wasn’t one to forget things like that.

"Liz?" Matthew asked as he stood in the threshold. His nose sniffed the air and wrinkled; that perfume wasn’t one of his favorite scents.

Liz Allen’s head snapped up, her heart jumping a beat, startled by the sudden intrusion. "Oh, Matt...hi," she sheepishly greeted her ex-boyfriend's partner. "How’ve you been doing?"

"Good. Just got news that we settled our class-action. We’re looking to make about $30 million off of it," Matt reported as he folded his telescoping stick and secured the latch. "The timing couldn’t be better. It’ll help make sure Foggy gets the best treatment money can buy."

Her eyes drifted back to her former lover. "I heard about him in the news. I...I just had to see him. His mother was gracious enough to give us some privacy," she confessed. "How’s he doing?"

Matt reiterated everything he knew from the last time he was told anything, but he used his radar sense to fill in the gaps. Liz somberly gazed at Foggy as he spoke. "He misses you. Desperately. There isn’t a second that goes by that you’re not on his mind. Liz, Frank—"

"I know," Liz interrupted. "My parents told me he called them." Her voice fluttered as she hesitated. "I miss him, too, but I still hate him and it kills me that I feel that way. I hate that he hurt me and I still love him."

Matt wasn’t sure what to say next, but he wouldn’t get much of a chance to say anything as Liz stood and gathered her purse.

"Can you do me a favor?" she asked.

"Absolutely."

Liz sniffed then straightened her posture. "Don’t tell him I was here." Before her hastily constructed facade could break she quickly strode out of the room.

Matt followed her, his senses intimately aware of her struggling emotions. He focused on Foggy’s prone form, on the steady rhythmic pattern of the bellows that inflated and deflated of the breathing machine and the consistent beeping of the heart monitor, the whole time wondering if he really could keep the secret. Foggy may not have had his keenly aware senses, but he made up for it in other ways with things like vocal tones and body language.

He figured he would cross that bridge when the time came. With a deep sigh Matthew shifted his body weight and settled into the uncomfortable tweed chair where he would stay for the remainder of the day.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

This is the final issue of my ‘prequel’ arc that created the events leading to J.R.’s #0. The next issue will take place in present day continuity and will continue from J.R.’s Daredevil #2. I played it a little loose with continuity but I’m fairly certain I didn’t outright contradict anything leading up to when Echo blinded Fisk. If I did, then I surely won’t be drawing attention to it.

As far as Foggy’s heart attack, I’m taking the fact that Daredevil and Franklin didn’t play a large part in the events of J.R.’s issues outside of what dealt directly with the main Kingpin/Silke plot to explain why it didn’t come up since it wouldn’t have been relevant to those issues. I will be continuing this thread in my future issues, and kinda artificially fluff in a few months time in between this issue and #0. Fortunately, Foggy doesn’t need a long recovery for this before getting back into the game for me to need more time and therefore make things more difficult.

If anybody out there still cares to have made it this far then I thank you. I won’t be making any excuses for my apparent neglect other than saying it’s just been a crazy year and a half, but hopefully I’m making through the other side of this and getting to point where I have more time in the chunks I need to accomplish more. I appreciate everybody’s patience. I’ll try not to wear it thin.

Erik