48 Eyes That Do Not See, But Rage.
Had some free time so I completed a chapter that was previously half-finished. Enjoy!
***
"You almost DIED?!!"
"Well...yeah....almost," Peter gulped, looking into Gwen's blue eyes which were merely a few inches from his face. Her hands gripped his collar while he was pressed into a large chair.
"But you know what?"
"What?" she hissed, her expression morphing into one of worry and fear.
"I didn't."
"You-!" Gwen let out an exasperated sigh before collapsing into a chair of her own. "This was supposed to be an easy operation."
Peter's eyes softened as he watched Gwen worry for him. It was nice to have someone who cared.
"Hey! It was a success," he shrugged as he leaned back on the chair. It was true. Gwen had run multiple tests on the Silicon chip before declaring it safe while periodically letting out praises complimenting its craftsmanship. It had enough storage to put even Gwen's best work to shame, which made him wonder who crafted the Silver Samurai's armour.
Anyhow, the sheer amount of evidence in it was undeniable, and the only way Kingpin could worm out of this was by pulling out the corruption card. Unfortunately, he was quite proficient at that.
'Curse that overgrown tub of lard,' he sighed to himself as he got to his feet, looming over Gwen.
They were currently regrouping in her warehouse a few hours after his fiasco with Kenuichio and he was still on the fence about actually going to Madripoor. While he could make time for it, he didn't know whether he wanted to get entangled with another super-powerful criminal organization.
The Obsidian Nexus was enough of a behemoth. He didn't need to add to that. Not yet, at least.
The fight with Kenuichio had made quite an impression on him. It had painfully prodded his weaknesses. Both physical and mental.
Moreover, he had the WCCR in a month. The Extremis Evolution in a week and, most importantly...His eyes flicked to Gwen, who stared quizzically at him...someone's birthday to prepare for.
He had a lot of work to do.
"Yeah, it was a success alright," her elegant eyebrows twitched. "But what now? This is something that'll rock New York City. A Mayor Candidate's multimillion-dollar company being outed as a Superhuman Mercenary Organisation? With his information network, Fisk will be gone before any authority would bother to take action."
"You don't think anybody would dare legally attack them?" Peter questioned. "The Government and its Defence organisations would be more than happy to take them on, you know. I doubt Kingpin's army of mercenaries would trouble them. Hell, I doubt the mercenaries would stick around to help the guy."
"I guess you're right," she shrugged before grabbing his hand and pulling him into her chair. Her head rested on his wide shoulders as his arms pulled her closer.
She let out a contented sigh before muttering, "You think he'll face his consequences just like we face ours?"
"Fisk?" Peter said, spotting B.O.B. trying his best to woo the 3.D printing machine in the corner of his eye. "I hope so. He's ruined enough lives."
"You don't know for sure?"
"Nobody does. Isn't that the point?"
Gwen looked away, forlorn. She didn't seem to like that answer.
"Obsidian Nexus, as it is now, will cease to be. If Fisk manages to get away, he'll have to make do with scraps," Peter said firmly. "As I said, I doubt the mercenaries on his payroll will be too happy either."
His eyes flicked over to Gwen, finding her as downtrodden as she was before, and frankly, he couldn't blame her. With all those connections, mind-boggling amounts of money, and a formidable intellect, a man like Kingpin had very little to fear. It was next to impossible to put the fear of the devil in him.
'Devil, eh?' Peter thought, faint embers of an idea stirring in his eyes.
"Having said that...I may know of a way to make him face the consequences...," he muttered, making Gwen perk up.
"What? Really?!" she exclaimed, grabbing his hand.
"Let's just say that I know a guy who'd give his life to make sure Fisk is in chains."
***
The dilapidated church stood at the edge of a dusty road, its timeworn facade bearing the scars of countless years of neglect. Its once-grand spires reached towards the heavens, though now they seemed to beg for salvation themselves.
The stained glass windows, formerly radiant with the vibrant hues of biblical scenes, had lost much of their former glory. Broken and cracked, they filtered the sunlight in fragmented patterns of colour and shadow, casting a spectral glow on a lone man in a lonelier church.
He sat on a wooden bench, his elbows on his knees and his fingers entwined. The dirty ragged suit that seemed to hold history was clumsily worn around his drooping shoulders.
CLICK!
A folded red cane clattered to the floor, pushed by the odd gust of wind that blew by from time to time. It was all that made the stale air feel breathable.
"Darned thing," the man grumbled in a husky voice, bending down and picking it up, not bothering to move the long locks of dirty red, greying hair that covered his eyes. He seemed to be able to see just fine.
His callused hands caressed the cane for a few moments before his lower lip trembled for but a brief moment, the sadness quickly morphing into rage.
"What more do want from me?" he sighed before clenching his teeth, his head turning toward the large statue that loomed over him at the centre of the church.
His fingers began to lightly tremble as he clenched the cane with more strength than he intended.
"I did everything I was asked of!" he growled, standing up on his shaky legs before slowly making his way to the giant statue of a man nailed to a cross. "I always did what I believed was right."
The statue, though chipped and weathered, held an air of quiet strength, as if it was the last faithful witness to a time when this place was alive with devotion. Yet none of that mattered before a broken man.
CLICK!
His worn boots and heavy breathing cut through the previous serenity of the church.
"I believed in you in my darkest of moments!" he snarled, his voice growing louder and louder with every step.
CLICK!
"You kindled and fanned the flames of hope that I held on to."
CLICK!
"I FOUGHT OFF THE DEVIL HIMSELF!"
CLACK!
His cane slammed into the floor as streaks of tears rolled down his stubbled chin.
"And all I get in return is death, death and MORE DEATH!" he roared, his greyish-red locks parting, revealing bloodshot, unfocused eyes that did not see, but those that raged.
"Father, Mother, Mike..." the man's voice cracked at the last name, but he kept going, years, no, decades of bottled emotions had popped open and there was no stopping it.
"Elektra, Milla, Karen....Foggy...." he rasped, looking into the statue's closed eyes with fury, something he'd had never imagined himself doing a decade ago.
"What did they do to deserve death?!" he spat, looking up.
"Why was it them and not ME?!" he fell to his knees and slammed his fist into the floor.
"ANSWER ME!"
"ANSWER ME!!"
"ANSWER ME!!!
"WHY AM I STILL ALIVE!!!" he let out a final roar, falling to his knees. His yells echoed in the temple of what seemed to be a dead God. His cane lay beside him, forgotten as he dissolved into quiet sobs, his hands and knees covered in dust, and his mind weary.
The worn statue quietly stood before him, unchanging in the face of both the man's anger and sorrow. Whether it was the inability to answer, or the refusal to do so was unknown, and it made him sink further into despair.
But at that very moment, just when the embers of hope that once burnt bright in the man were about to be extinguished, an unnatural gust of wind blew by carrying with it a projectile that shot toward his neck with the speed of a bullet.
WHOOSH!
His hand shot out with inhuman dexterity, snatching it out of the air as though he were picking it up off the floor.
'A letter?', he thought, confusion adding to his already jumbled emotions. His incredible sense of touch informed him of what exactly it was, even finding a small object within the letter, its shape and feel ringing a bell.
A...pendrive?
His heart skipped a beat as his fingers immediately scoured the surface of the folded piece of paper. Within a few moments, he found what he was looking for.
Writing.
His index finger brushed across the words, feeling the faint impressions of ink, allowing him to read via touch.
[ A Gift. To the Daredevil. ]
His breath caught in his throat.
Nobody had called him that for over a decade
***
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See ya! Next chappie is prob on the 14th
