Daredevil: Blind Justice (DC Comics)

Tuesday, June 2nd, 2009, 11:43 PM

Metropolis

Corner of 5th and Brennan

James left the walking stick at home tonight.

The city felt different after midnight. Cleaner in some ways, dirtier in others. The honest people were asleep, leaving the streets to shift workers, insomniacs, and the kind of folks who preferred to do business when fewer eyes were watching.

He moved through the shadows between buildings like he'd been doing it his whole life. Every muscle memory Matt Murdock had developed over thirty years of rooftop running was his now. The way to distribute weight across a fire escape without making noise. How to use momentum and gravity to drop from a second-story window to street level without breaking bones. Which handholds would support his weight and which would crumble under pressure.

It should have been terrifying, moving through the city without sight. Instead, it felt like coming home.

James paused at the corner of 5th and Brennan, pressing himself against the brick wall of a closed electronics store. Fifty yards ahead, three men were conducting what was very obviously not a Bible study meeting.

"You sure this stuff is clean?" The first voice was nervous, young. Probably college age.

"Clean as it gets, man. My supplier don't mess around with cut product." Older voice, confident. Been doing this a while.

"What about cops?"

"What about them? You see any cops around here?"

James tilted his head, letting his enhanced hearing map the entire area. No police within six blocks. But there was something else, something that made his skin crawl. A van parked in the alley behind the buildings, engine running. Two more heartbeats inside, both adult males. Waiting.

This wasn't just a drug deal. This was recruitment.

James had read enough case files in Matt Murdock's memories to recognize the pattern. Find college kids looking for easy money, get them hooked on product, then offer them a way to work off their debt. Before they knew it, they were running drugs for serious people who didn't accept resignation letters.

He could call the police. Should call the police. That's what the old James would have done.

Instead, he found himself moving closer.

The kid was maybe nineteen, wearing a Met U sweatshirt that had seen better days. The dealer was older, mid-thirties, with the kind of casual confidence that came from never facing real consequences. They were exchanging cash for a small bag of something that looked like sugar but definitely wasn't.

"First time's free," the dealer said, grinning. "Next time, we'll talk business."

James felt something cold settle in his stomach. First time's free. Classic hook. Give them enough to get addicted, then own them completely.

The kid pocketed the drugs and started to walk away. The dealer pulled out his phone and made a quick call.

"Yeah, it's done. Kid's walking north on Brennan. White sweatshirt, dark jeans."

In the alley, the van's engine revved.

James moved without thinking, muscle memory from another life taking over. He scaled the fire escape beside him like he was climbing stairs, reaching the second floor in seconds. From there, he could see the bigger picture.

The van was already moving, following the kid at a distance. Two more men had emerged from doorways James hadn't even noticed, boxing the college student in from behind. The kid had no idea he was being herded.

This was how people disappeared. How college students became missing persons whose pictures ended up on James's desk.

How Maria Santos and Tommy Kowalski had vanished.

James leaped from the fire escape to the adjacent building, landing in a silent roll that absorbed the impact. The gap between buildings was maybe eight feet. Six months ago, the jump would have killed him. Now it felt natural.

He reached the next rooftop just as the van cornered the kid in an alley two blocks away. James could hear everything: the squeal of brakes, the kid's confused "Hey, what the hell?" followed by the wet sound of someone getting hit with something heavy.

Sloppy. They were doing this right out in the open, confident that nobody would interfere. That nobody would even notice.

They were wrong.

James dropped down into the alley, landing behind the van in a crouch that would have made any gymnastics coach proud. The two men were already dragging the unconscious kid toward the open back doors.

"Excuse me," James said politely.

Both men spun around, and James caught the scent of adrenaline and cheap cologne. The bigger one reached for something under his jacket.

"Who the hell are you supposed to be?" Big Guy demanded.

"Just a concerned citizen." James smiled, and something in his expression made both men take a step back. "You gentlemen seem to be having some trouble with your friend there."

"Walk away, blind boy," the smaller one said. "This ain't your business."

"See, that's where you're wrong." James took a step forward, and his body language shifted in a way that had nothing to do with his disability and everything to do with thirty years of being the most dangerous man in Hell's Kitchen. "Making it my business is kind of what I do."

Big Guy went for his gun. James moved faster than either of them could track, crossing the distance between them in two steps. His hand closed around Big Guy's wrist, twisting until bones made interesting noises and the weapon clattered to the ground.

The smaller man tried to run. James caught him before he made it three steps, using his momentum to slam him face-first into the alley wall. The man dropped like a sack of potatoes.

Big Guy was still conscious but making soft whimpering sounds as he cradled his broken wrist. "What are you, man? What the hell are you?"

"I'm the guy who doesn't like bullies," James said, kneeling beside the unconscious college kid. Alive, breathing steady, probably just concussed. "Your friend here is going to be fine. You, on the other hand, need to make some life choices."

"You don't know who you're messing with. My boss—"

"Your boss what? Is going to come looking for me?" James stood up, and even without seeing him, Big Guy seemed to shrink. "I really hope he does. I've been looking for some new hobbies."

James pulled out his phone and dialed 911, giving them the location and a brief description of two men who'd attempted to kidnap a college student. Then he melted back into the shadows, scaling the nearest fire escape just as the first police sirens began to wail in the distance.

From the rooftop, he watched the cops arrive, watched them cuff the two men and load the unconscious kid into an ambulance. Standard procedure. The dealers would probably be out on bail by morning, the kid would recover and hopefully learn to be more careful about where he bought his study aids.

But something had changed tonight. A pattern had been broken. A small piece of the machine had been removed.

It wasn't enough. It would never be enough. But it was a start.

James spent the rest of the night mapping the city from above, learning the rhythm of Metropolis after dark. Drug deals in corporate parking lots, protected by security cameras that had mysteriously malfunctioned. Human trafficking routes through maintenance tunnels that the city had supposedly sealed years ago. Corruption that flowed from street corners to boardrooms like water finding its level.

Superman could stop alien invasions and natural disasters. He could punch through mountains and fly faster than sound. But this stuff, this quiet evil that happened in alleys and abandoned buildings, was too small for him to notice.

Too small for anyone to notice, until now.

James returned to his apartment as the sun was coming up, muscles pleasantly sore from hours of rooftop running. He'd covered maybe ten square blocks, barely a fraction of the city. But he'd seen enough to understand the scope of what he was dealing with.

Metropolis wasn't just one city. It was two. The bright, shining metropolis that Superman protected, full of honest people living honest lives. And underneath it, a shadow city where predators hunted victims and the rules were written by whoever had the most money or the biggest gun.

He showered off the night's sweat and grime, then fell into bed as the rest of the city was waking up. His last conscious thought was of the kid in the Met U sweatshirt, probably waking up in a hospital instead of a trafficker's basement.