Daredevil: Blind Justice (DC Comics)

Wednesday, June 3rd, 2009, 2:17 PM

Southside Metropolis

Kowalski's Fabric & Tailoring

The bell above the door chimed when James stepped inside, and the smell hit him immediately. Old fabric, machine oil, and something that might have been mothballs mixed with decades of cigarette smoke. It was the kind of place that felt like it had been here since Metropolis was still called New Troy.

"Help you with something?"

The voice came from behind the counter, gravelly and worn. James turned toward it, tapping his walking stick against the wooden floor.

"I need some fabric. Black cotton, maybe canvas. Something durable."

"How durable we talking?"

James paused. He'd practiced this conversation in his head, but actually saying it out loud felt different. "Durable enough to last through some rough treatment."

There was a long silence, broken only by the tick of an old clock somewhere in the back of the store. James could hear the man moving around the counter, footsteps uneven like he favored his left leg.

"You got a name, son?"

"James."

"Vincent Kowalski. This is my place." The old man's voice had shifted, become more careful. "Mind if I ask what kind of rough treatment you're expecting?"

James considered lying, making up some story about camping gear or work clothes. But something about Vincent's tone suggested he'd heard stories like that before and hadn't bought them then either.

"The kind that comes with trying to help people who don't want to be helped."

Vincent was quiet for a moment. When he spoke again, there was something different in his voice. Recognition, maybe. Or understanding.

"You planning on doing this helping at night?"

"Mostly."

"Alone?"

"Yeah."

Vincent grunted, a sound that could have meant anything. "Follow me."

James heard him moving toward the back of the store, past bolts of fabric and the steady hum of sewing machines. The walking stick wasn't really necessary anymore, but it helped sell the image of harmless disabled guy just looking for some cloth.

"Opened this place in 1953," Vincent said as they walked. "Right after I got back from Korea. Figured I'd had enough excitement for one lifetime, you know? Wanted to do something quiet."

"Didn't work out that way?"

"Oh, it was quiet. For about six months." Vincent stopped, and James heard the creak of a door opening. "Then this actor comes in, needs a costume for some off-Broadway thing he's doing. Batman, he called it. This was before anyone knew who the real Batman was, you understand. Just a character in a radio show."

James followed him into what felt like a smaller room. The air was different here, less dusty. More organized.

"Made him a nice gray suit with a cape. Good quality work. Actor was so pleased, he told his friends. Pretty soon I'm making costumes for half the theater district."

"Just theater?"

Vincent chuckled, but there wasn't much humor in it. "That's what I told myself for a while. Then this kid comes in, maybe seventeen years old. Says he needs something practical. Something that won't tear when he's climbing buildings."

James could feel the weight of history in the room now, could sense that he wasn't the first person to have this conversation.

"What did you tell him?"

"Same thing I'm gonna tell you. This work you're thinking about doing, it changes people. Usually not for the better." Vincent's footsteps moved away, and James heard fabric being unrolled. "You sure you want to go down this road?"

James thought about the kid in the Met U sweatshirt, about Maria Santos and Tommy Kowalski, about all the people who disappeared into the shadow city while everyone else looked the other way.

"I'm sure."

"Alright then." The sound of scissors cutting fabric. "Cotton canvas, like you asked for. Triple-stitched seams, reinforced at the stress points. This'll hold up to whatever you throw at it."

James listened to Vincent work, the steady rhythm of cutting and measuring and sewing. The old man's hands were sure despite his age, each motion economical and precise.

"How many people have you done this for?" James asked.

"More than you'd think. Fewer than there should be." Vincent paused in his work. "This city's got a way of eating heroes, son. The ones who make it are usually the ones who remember they're still human underneath the mask."

"What about the ones who don't make it?"

"They end up like the kid I was telling you about. Started coming in here when he was seventeen, full of righteous anger and good intentions. Last time I saw him, he was thirty-five and looked fifty. Hollow eyes, hands that shook when he thought nobody was watching."

James felt something cold settle in his stomach. "What happened to him?"

"Same thing that happens to all of them, eventually. The work consumed him. Became all he was, instead of just something he did." Vincent's voice got quieter. "Don't let that happen to you, James. Whatever name you choose, whatever costume you wear, remember that there's a person underneath it all."

The sewing machine stopped, and James heard Vincent standing up.

"Try this on."

The fabric was exactly what James had asked for. Black cotton canvas, soft enough to move in but sturdy enough to take punishment. The pants were simple, reinforced at the knees and seat. The sweatshirt had a hood that would cast shadows across his face, and the mask was just a strip of cloth that covered everything from his nose up, leaving his mouth free.

It wasn't armor. It wasn't even particularly intimidating. But it was practical, and it was his.

"How much do I owe you?" James asked.

"Call it an investment. In the neighborhood."

James reached for his wallet anyway, but Vincent waved him off.

"I'm serious, son. This one's on the house. But I want something in return."

"What?"

"You come back here if you need repairs. Or if you need to talk to someone who understands what you're doing." Vincent's voice got stern. "And if you ever find yourself enjoying the violence too much, you come talk to me about that too. Before it's too late."

James nodded, then realized Vincent might not be able to see it. "I will."

"Good. Now get out of here before someone sees you leaving with that package."

James made his way back through the store, the bundle of clothes tucked under his arm. At the door, he turned back.

"Vincent? The kid you mentioned. What was his name?"

"Called himself Nightwing. Real name was Dick something. Can't remember his last name." Vincent was already back at his sewing machine. "He moved to another city a few years back. Needed a fresh start, I think."