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New Marvel Presents:

DAREDEVIL, the Man Without Fear

# 374: "Omissions"

Written By:  Rob Payne
Editor:  Ben Kaine
Editor-in-Chief: Brian Provow

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I have been lying to myself.

It is not a healthy habit, nor is it one I can choose to condone any longer.  In fact, it is rather a dangerous and unconscious act that should be avoided at all costs.

In the morning, I sit hunched over the side of my building wearing a kevlar-lined red spandex suit that desperately needs to be washed. The red is for my namesake.  When a perpetrator catches a glimpse of the devil in starch moonlight he does not hesitate to repent his sins.  The extra padding in the suit provides me with the ability to take several hits from the healthiest of individuals and still dispense justice.  The kevlar lining makes sure they don’t rip it off (and perhaps make more than just my costume turn bright red).

And like my namesake I have more than once fallen from grace.  And like my victims I have often felt the need to beg forgiveness.

Tonight is one of those nights.

Atop the roof, "gazing" (as best a blind man can) down over Hell’s Kitchen, I see a woman several feet below me sleeping in my bed.  A women who should not be there.  Farther below her and stretching out through the entire world are hundreds of thousands of innocent men and women and children who lie bleeding or dying or in some other way being victimized by a violent crime that should have been stopped.

But I can’t save them all.  I do not blame myself for rapes in Utah, beatings in Russia, terrorism in Israel, or various hate crimes in Texas.  To do so would drive a man mad.

Or, rather, considerably more so.

Even today, a day when I’m meant to dispel the voices in my head and speak honestly to myself, I am still denying the force that has brought me here.

The stains on my suit.  My uniform.  My identity.  The long-since dried and near-black stains of an innocent’s blood.  She wore a dozen stab wounds on her back like some half-baked victim of a illusory snuff film.  I loved her and hated her all at once.

But the place they have in my heart doesn’t seem to matter for saving purposes.  All are equals.

And yet, it was because of this woman that I realized I had suddenly uncovered an epidemic.  Neither the police nor the media seemed to have discovered it.  Only my blind eyes could see the awful truth in front of the world.  While they remained seated in front of the curtain, I had managed to stumble backstage.

For all that, it seems my lack of sight has rendered Daredevil useless.  The culprits of this production are still unknown to me.

The woman (girl, really) I attempted to save several nights ago was not the first.  Granted, she was the first I came across, but what does that matter?  Did Sherlock Holmes lock up his mind merely because the crimes he solved were brought to his attention?  No.

I almost laugh at myself.  To think that I might have a mind as great as the legendary Arthur Conan Doyle character simply proves how detached from myself I can become.

Two other women have died this week.  They were both found alive, their backs carved nearly to pieces, and then brought to emergency rooms as fresh corpses.  Each morning following their discovery I would curse myself for being too far away or going in too early.  Following work, before I came home to Karen (when she was still here..), I went to their respective hospitals with Ben Urich (stalwart reporter friend, Old Ben) and investigated their wounds as best I could.  By touch alone.

Ben never bothered to ask why; he respected my silence with a promise that he would be the first to get the story before it went public.

The connection I felt unearthed itself in my soul almost immediately.  Something unexplainable that drew me to their cases.  And so, I made it a point to go out and traverse the regions of their murders.  Just outside of Hell’s Kitchen.  It was not until the second night that I heard the tell-tale scream.  I was still too late.  Just like the others.

This is what I know: all three women have been killed with the same type of weapon, a bowie knife; all three women were between the ages of 21 and 25; all three women were killed in the same week, separated every two days or so; all three women were found because of their screams and brought to hospitals; all three women were dead before they reached the examination room.

What does it take to be a New York police detective anymore?

It appears obvious these women are either the victim of one man or a group operating under the same rules.  Everything is the same; weapons, time and cause of death, and approximate locations.  Even the screams- as if they’re controlled until the proper moment.  The killer(s) must have been close on discovery and for some reason my senses were not able to detect anything out of the ordinary.  No extraneous heartbeats or smells.

It is truly amazing the things a man can hide from himself when he does not want to accept what Fate and Reality bring before him.

I did not understand my compulsions until the moment I decided to seek out Wilson Fisk this morning.  And time is running out.

Suddenly I am recalled to another reality as the wail of the first car horn of the day signals rush hour is set to begin.  Natasha Romanov sleeps in my bed.  My name is Matt Murdock, I am a lawyer, and I must go to work in a matter of hours.

She was already dressing when I walked in.  My red mask had come off as soon as I entered the apartment, and I immediately began peeling the rest of my second skin away when I nudged open the door to my bedroom.  We completed our acts in silence and in no more than a few moments she was fully clothed and I was ready for a shower.

We kissed goodbye, held each other for a ridiculously brief period of time and then separated.  For how long?  I honestly do not know.  But we both realize we’ve outlasted our uses for one another right now.  Our paths will cross again; if they didn’t it would be a great crime.  But for now I’ve other things I must concentrate on.

Without speaking or even making eye contact we knew our slight tryst had come to an end.  I turned as her hand slid across my cheek and she walked through the doorway.  I watched her aural figure as she crossed the living room and kitchen and then stopped at the front door to blow me a kiss.  I said goodbye with a single nod of my head and took a shower.


* * *

Sitting at the table of a local diner a few blocks out of Hell’s Kitchen, I try to keep my mind busy with idle thoughts.  The sweat from my night’s excursions as it collided and mixed with the near-boiling water from the showerhead as I bathed standing up.  I remember savoring the feeling of salt coagulating with water, something I always do, as it is one of the few times in my day that I am allowed such peace. 

The Black Widow enters my mind once more, if only to be forgotten in a matter of minutes.  Three days ago I would never have assumed our affair would have ended so abruptly and without cause.  But she was only meant to fill the void that Karen left, and I have decided I no longer need that void to be filled by a forgery.

I called Karen after my shower.  I sat on the edge of my couch, fingering the card Foggy had given to me several mornings ago.  I traced the numbers as I waited for the rings to end and someone to pick up.  In the few seconds between dialing and speaking I contemplated hanging up more times than I could count.  Finally, her soothing voice interrupted my abortion:

"Hello?"

It was still early and the wavering in her voice told me I had woken her up.  "I’m sorry," the words just came out.

"Matt?"

My name, the way she said my name, the same way she said it when the first time we met, as though we had always known each other, almost too familiar.  And the words simply walked off my tongue again:  "I’m sorry for waking you up.  I’m sorry for not calling until now.  I’m just sorry, Karen."

I could not control myself.

She insisted my interruption of her sleep was not uncalled for and that I need not be sorry.  I apologized once more anyway.  Silence followed and I could not break it.  I was the one who had called but could not manage to think of anything to say.  Somehow Karen talked me into meeting her for breakfast.

"The place we went to when we were younger.  Monk’s, do you remember?"

I did and we hung up, knowing we would see each other in an hour.  I had no idea I missed her voice that much.  If there were any reason to save whatever relationship we had, it would be purely to hear the sound of her voice.

Monk’s Diner is the official name, even though you’ll only see the bright pink word Diner on the sign outside.  Relatively full with men and women of all ages: college students, thirty-somethings, and the elderly.  Even a blind super hero doesn’t feel out of place here.

My thoughts pause for a moment in order for me to listen to the clock on the wall to my right.  The distinctive sound of the second hand passing over the hour hand at 8 and then the minute hand at 9 immediately tells me Karen is late.

I sigh and pull out my cell phone, a Christmas gift the guys at the office bought me.  Apparently it took all their collective funds to pool together enough money for something that was last seen in 1987.  I punch in the number and listen to the rings.  A waitress refills my cup in the time it takes for Foggy to answer his phone.

"Nelson, Nelson and Murdock."

"Foggy, it’s Matt.  I’m going to be later than I thought."

I can hear my best friend’s heavy breathing and the pounding of his heart over the line.  He is obviously discomforted by this latest news.

"Why?"

"Personal reasons.  I called Karen."

He sighs and the chair squeaks as he no doubt leans back.  "You should really talk to my mother.  You know that, Matt."

"You’re right, Foggy.  Absolutely right.  But we both know she won’t kill you."

Foggy laughs, the tone tells me he isn’t so sure.  "I’ll see you later then?"

And just then her perfume fills my nose and her ever-familiar heartbeat consumes my senses.  Karen has entered and I cancel the phone call immediately.  She spots me and walks over, setting down her purse on the opposite side of the booth and then sitting down as the waitress takes her order of coffee.

I stare at her glowing red outline, unable, once again, to say anything.  She’s breathing through her nose, I cannot tell whether she’s smiling or not.

"I’m sorry," she finally says.  "Sorry for being late."

I nod.  "My boss isn’t going to be happy." 

Another moment of silence and her mouth opens to take a breath.  She frowns.  I attempt a smile to show her that I’m joking, and then I fail by speaking.  "But, maybe since you and Foggy are such good friends now you can have him stand up for me."

She sighs a heavy sigh.  The sigh of a woman who is reconsidering her choice to have breakfast with the man she left.  "That isn’t fair, Matt."

"And leaving me with a pot roast was?"  A mistake.

"Can’t you ever think outside of yourself for just a moment?"

"So, you don’t love me anymore."  A ploy.

She sighs again, "Of course I still love you.  Of course I still want to be your friend, even if we can't be together in the same way.  But—"

"All you need is Love."  Desperation and I always thought angst ended after the teenage years.

"Not anymore, Matt.  Even as friends, there are things that can't really be the same between us.  I tried to hide it, not to think about it.  I wanted John Lennon to be right more than you could ever imagine, Matt.  But he wasn’t."

My turn to sigh.  So there it is.  She’s afraid.  "You’re afraid."

"How can I not be?"

"Of?"

"Matt-  I do love you.  I know what a wonderful man you are.  But now that I'm- sick, and I can't be with you-  Don't you see?  You're going to see someone else, sooner or later.  Maybe even go back to the ol' Widow you have the occasional rendezvous with.  And then where will I be?" 

My body stings, my heart burns, and my head aches.  Karen is absolutely right.  How can I argue with that?  I proved her right the very night she left.  All I can do is wipe the single tear from my eye before it falls across my cheek.

"I don't think I can take that, Matt," she said.  "Dying while living with you, watching you move on without me."

We both take sips from our coffees and sit in the quiet of our own little world as it falls apart.


* * *

I have once again reached the edge of night.  And a new rain falls, like God echoing my pain.  After my breakfast with Karen, I went home and slept for three hours.  I didn’t even bother calling in sick.  This may seem strange for me, and it is.  For most of my life I’ve been playing the good kid, the one all the mothers either want their boys to become or their girls to date.

So, for the next few days or weeks or however long this lasts I will be the bad guy.  The box on my lap proves that better than I could ever hope to explain it.

I ordered Chinese for lunch and feasted on rice, egg rolls and sweet and sour sauce.  The delivery boy was thirteen minutes late, and because I’m blind he attempted to hide his tardiness.  I didn’t bother to call him on it and gave him a tip larger than he deserved.  He’ll probably tell his friends and co-workers what an idiot the blind guy upstairs is and arrive an hour late with cold noodles the next time I order.

C’est la vie.

Soon after, I dressed the part of Matt Murdock, Blind and Magnificent Attorney-At-Law, and made my way to the New York Temporary Containment Facility outside of town.  The jail where all the costumed jokers who commit violent acts against humanity are placed, at least until the Vault is fixed.  I’ve contemplated visiting their most recent inmate but decided against it.

Out of uniform, I’d rather not see Bullseye, the man who attempted to kill my mother and nearly did kill me (not to mention Fat Willie).*

(*Daredevil the Fearless #10-11- Editor)

Instead, I made my way to the Possessions Office.  A brief scuffle with the guards on duty detained me until they were finally convinced of my identity and my purpose for being there.  Hesitantly, they handed me what I came for and I went on my merry way home.

That’s when the rain began to fall.  And now I sit on the edge of my bed with the soaked, corrugated cardboard box on my lap.  I trace my palm along the side and feel the words made in marker on the side:  "Bullseye: Clothes".

Finally, I pry open the taped edges and pull the blue and white costume out of its prison.  The clock reads 6:32 PM and the night has just begun.  A killer is on the loose.  I’ll leave soon and then there will be two..

NEXT:  As Daredevil dons the mask of Bullseye, his greatest enemy-  Our epic, giant-sized 375th issue!  By newcomer to New Marvel Justin Stewart!
 
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EDITOR’S NOTES:

A quick correction by your fool editor.  I’m slightly embarrassed to find the tagline of many of the latest issues of Daredevil has been "Daredevil, the Fearless!", when it’s supposed to read "Daredevil, the Man Without Fear".  This is what you get for copying-and-pasting such things without taking a closer look.

Just to cement, the "Daredevil, the Fearless" 12-issue limited series is completed and we have resumed the original series and numbering begun by Marvel Comics Continuity.  Sorry about that!

-Editor Ben