Daredevil: Blind Justice (DC Comics)

Wednesday, May 20th, 2009, 2:17 AM

STAR Labs Medical Wing

Recovery Room 7

The first thing James noticed wasn't the darkness.

It was the music.

Every heartbeat in the building had its own rhythm. Dr. Sarah Charles standing next to his bed, quick, nervous beats that spoke of too much caffeine and not enough sleep. Someone down the hall with a slow, steady pulse that suggested either medication or serious illness. And somewhere three floors up, a heart hammering so fast it had to belong to someone in panic.

Clark.

The second thing James noticed was that he wasn't surprised by any of this.

"James?" Dr. Charles's voice was carefully modulated, the tone doctors used when they were about to deliver bad news. "Can you hear me?"

He tried to speak, but his throat felt like he'd been gargling gravel. Instead, he managed a small nod, which apparently sent half the monitoring equipment in the room into fits.

"That's good. That's very good." She was moving around the bed now, checking machines, adjusting tubes. James could track her exact position just by the sound of her breathing, the rustle of her coat, the subtle shift in air pressure as she moved. "James, I need to prepare you for something. The injuries you sustained... there was damage to your optical nerves. I'm afraid you've lost your sight."

James almost laughed. Almost. If only she knew that he could see more now than he ever had when his eyes worked. Not colors or shapes or light, but truth. Intent. The nervous flutter in her pulse that said she was worried about more than just his blindness.

"I know," he said, his voice coming out as a rasp.

Dr. Charles stopped moving. "You... know?"

"Kind of figured when I woke up and everything was black." James managed what he hoped was a reassuring smile. "It's okay, Doc. I'm not gonna break down crying or anything."

The silence stretched out long enough that James could hear her swallow. Twice.

"James, that's... most people in your situation experience significant emotional distress. Anger, denial, bargaining. It's completely normal to—"

"To freak out?" James shifted slightly in the bed, testing what hurt and what didn't. His ribs were taped up, his left arm was in a cast, and there was something covering the left side of his face. But underneath all that, he felt... good. Better than he had any right to. "Look, I'm not saying it doesn't suck. But I'm alive, right? That's something."

Dr. Charles was quiet for a long moment. When she spoke again, her voice had changed. Less clinical, more concerned.

"James, how are you able to track my movements so precisely? You've been following me around the room with your head."

Shit. James forced himself to look straight ahead, focusing on where he thought the ceiling should be. "Lucky guesses?"

"Your spatial awareness is... unusual for someone who's been blind for less than twenty-four hours. Most patients have difficulty with basic orientation for weeks, sometimes months."

James could hear her moving closer, could smell the coffee on her breath and the faint scent of fear-sweat under her deodorant. Whatever she was thinking, it was making her nervous.

"I'm just as curious as you," he said.

Before Dr. Charles could respond, the door burst open with enough force to rattle the frame. Clark's heartbeat flooded the room like a thunderstorm, all chaos and guilt and barely controlled panic.

"Is he awake? Is he, James!"

Clark's relief hit the air like a physical force. James could taste it, metallic and overwhelming, mixed with guilt so thick it was almost choking.

"Hey, Clark." James turned toward his friend's voice, not because he couldn't pinpoint exactly where Clark was standing, but because it seemed like the normal thing to do. "You look like hell."

"I look like, James, you can't even see me."

"Don't need to, I'm still right. You sound like hell too."

Clark moved to the bed, and James could map his friend's entire emotional state just from the way he walked. Exhausted. Guilty. Scared. And underneath it all, that weird vibration James had always associated with Clark but never really understood.

Now he knew what it was. Power. Barely contained, cosmic-level power that hummed through Clark's body like electricity through power lines.

"Jimmy, I'm so sorry." Clark's voice cracked on the words. "This is all my fault. If I'd been faster, if I'd—"

"Stop." James reached out and found Clark's hand, squeezing it. "You didn't do this. That psycho alien did this. You saved everyone else."

"But you—"

"I made a choice. My choice. And I'd make it again."

Dr. Charles cleared her throat. "I'm sorry to interrupt, but I need to run a few more tests. Basic neurological function, reflexes, that sort of thing."

She moved around to the other side of the bed, and James tracked her movement without thinking about it. Out of the corner of his enhanced hearing, he caught Clark's sharp intake of breath.

"James," Dr. Charles said carefully, "I'm going to touch your hand. Tell me when you feel it."

Her fingers brushed his wrist before she even finished speaking. "Now."

"I haven't touched you yet."

James felt his stomach drop. He'd reacted to the sound of her movement, not her actual touch. "My mistake."

But it was too late. Both Clark and Dr. Charles were staring at him now—he could feel their attention like heat on his skin.

"James," Clark said slowly, "how did you know I was wearing my red shirt?"

Fuck. Had he said something about Clark's clothes? James tried to remember what he'd said, but between the painkillers and the confusion of processing thirty years of someone else's memories, everything felt fuzzy.

"I didn't."

"You told me I look like hell. How could you know that unless you can see me?"

"I told you, you sound like hell. Your voice is tired."

Clark wasn't buying it. Neither was Dr. Charles, who was now actively studying James like he was a particularly interesting lab specimen.

"James," she said, "I'm going to hold up some fingers. Don't try to guess. Just tell me if you can see anything at all."

"I can't see anything," James said, which was the truth. He couldn't see her fingers. He could hear the subtle whisper of air moving around them, could smell the faint scent of the hand soap she'd used, could sense the change in heat distribution as she raised her arm. But he couldn't see.

"How many fingers am I holding up?"

James stayed quiet.

"James?"

"I said I can't see anything. That includes fingers."

Dr. Charles lowered her hand, and James heard her exchange a look with Clark. He was getting good at reading the language of glances he couldn't see.

"I'd like to run some additional tests," Dr. Charles said finally. "Brain scans, sensory response evaluations. The trauma you experienced was severe, and sometimes the brain compensates in unexpected ways."

"What kind of unexpected ways?" Clark asked.

"Enhanced function in remaining senses. Improved spatial processing. Sometimes patients develop almost supernatural awareness of their environment." She paused. "Though usually not this quickly."

James closed his eyes, not that it made any difference, and tried to look appropriately confused and helpless. Inside, Matt Murdock's memories were screaming at him to be careful, to not reveal too much too soon. People who were different got studied. Dissected. Used.

"I don't feel enhanced," he lied. "I feel like someone hit me with a truck."

"Several trucks," Clark said with forced lightness. "And then maybe a building or two."

James managed a weak laugh. "Sounds about right."

Dr. Charles made some notes on her tablet. "I'll schedule those tests for tomorrow. Right now, you need rest. Your body's been through significant trauma."

She headed for the door, then paused. "James? The way you're adapting... it's remarkable. Don't be afraid of it."

After she left, Clark pulled a chair up beside the bed. They sat in comfortable silence for a while, James listening to his friend's guilt-ridden heartbeat and trying to figure out how to navigate this new world he'd found himself in.

"I should have protected you," Clark said finally.

"You did protect me. You protected everyone."

"Not everyone."

James turned toward him, wishing he could see Clark's face. Not because he needed to, he could read everything he needed from heartbeat and breathing and the subtle chemistry of emotion, but because some habits died hard.

"Clark, listen to me. What happened to me? It sucks. But I'm still here. Still breathing. Still your friend. Don't you dare turn this into some kind of martyrdom complex."

Clark was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke again, his voice was small. "I don't know how to fix this."

"Maybe you don't need to fix it. Maybe this is just... what happens now."

James closed his eyes and listened to the symphony of STAR Labs around him. Dozens of heartbeats, hundreds of electronic devices, the whisper of air through ventilation systems, the distant hum of the city beyond the walls.

For the first time since waking up, he felt something like peace.