The Hand part 1

Everything was pain. The sounds, no matter how soft, seemed to pierce his skull like knives. The very air against his skin felt like blades, peeling the skin off his bones. The rotten smell of an entire city made him want to puke and he couldn't even eat anymore, because food didn't taste like food anymore, it tasted like a bunch of chemical products.

All Matt could do was lie in his bed, uselessly trying to cover the sounds of the entire world with his hands.

The door to the room opened, the sound of the hinges making him sob. Someone stepped in, the echo of his feet against the ground thundering inside his head. Matt couldn't see him, obviously, but somehow he knew it wasn't any of the orphanage nuns, but a man, an older man. Not a priest, if the lack of church's garment and the absence of a crucifix around his neck meant anything.

He had no idea how he knew that, but he did.

He also knew that the man was blind, just he was. But just like Matt, he seemed to know exactly what was around him, almost as if he still had his vision.

The man simply stared at him for a long moment, taking in the way Matt was shaking in pain.

"They think you're getting worse," the man finally said, his rough voice sounding extremely loud to Matt, even though he barely raised it. "But… You're not, are you, kid?"

He grabbed something from inside his pocket, something small, something metallic: a set of keys, Matt knew, even without being able to see them.

And without saying anything, the man tossed the keys in Matt's direction.

Matt's blind eyes couldn't see anything, but he knew exactly where the keys were when they were thrown. It was almost as he could feel them, the vibration in the air, the little metallic noises, the very temperature variation.

Without knowing how he did it, Matt raised his hand and grabbed the set of keys before they could hit him.

"You're getting stronger," the man finished, almost as if he expected Matt to do exactly what he had done.

He sighed as Matt tried to understand what had just happened.

"Let's get started."

Without ceremony, without asking for permission or even thinking about acting like a polite guest, Stick opened Matt's fridge, grabbed a beer and opened it with a flick of his thumb.

Matt Murdock followed the bottlecap with his enhanced senses, as it bounced first against the kitchen wall, then against the ceiling, on the floor and finally landed inside the trash can; quite the feat for anyone, let alone someone blind, but then again Stick was anything but an ordinary, blind man.

His appearance alone was enough to fool most people. An old man, thin as a rail, with grey hair and unshaved beard, wearing shabby clothes and a cap. Add to that a pair of cloudy, blind eyes and a cane and most people wouldn't look twice at him, unless it was to help the poor old man.

A mistake many would only have the chance to make once.

Sipping the beer, Stick started pacing around the kitchen.

"Expensive beer," he said, his rough voice still familiar to Matt after all this time. He made a show of grabbing the air, as if feeling it with his fingers. "Silk sheets." Then he took a deep breath. "And a woman." Stick shook his head. "You're getting soft, Matty."

Matt felt the need to defend himself.

"Cotton feels like sandpaper on my skin."

"I guess you didn't have the same problem with the woman," Stick retorted, drinking again. "By the way, when is she coming back?"

"She's not," Matt replied, not really sure how he felt about that.

When Matt told Claire that the Russian mob wouldn't bother her anymore, Claire left his apartment as soon as the sun came up. He knew her haste had nothing to do with him and everything to do with the fact that she'd been hiding for so long, but it was hard seeing her go. Matt was happy for her, he really was, but he would be lying if he said he wasn't getting used to her company.

Maybe it was a good thing Claire didn't stay for too long. Stick certainly agreed with that.

"Good!" Stick stated. "Women are a distraction. Just like silk sheets and good beer, furniture, apartments… You'd be better off living without all this bullshit."

"This is my life!" Matt snarled. "And I made something of it, without you. That's the part that really pisses you of, isn't it?"

Matt fought the rage piling up inside him. It had been twenty years since he saw Stick, twenty years since he walked out without a word and left him behind. Once he dared to think of Stick as a father, someone that could fill that void inside him left when his dad, Jack Murdock, was murdered by the mob for refusing to take a dive in a boxing match.

He was cured of that foolishness quickly enough.

His words, however, gave Stick pause.

"No, Matty, I'm proud of you, I really am," Stick said, and weirdly enough, Matt believed him. "The things you've done, what you've made of yourself, but…" He opened his arms. "This is… Surrounding yourself with soft stuff isn't life. It's death. Someday those silk sheets are gonna crawl up behind you, wrap themselves around your throat and choke you to death." Stick stared at Matt with his blind eyes. "You're a warrior."

Matt was in silence for a moment, his mind replaying memories decades old. After his father died he was left alone and sent to Saint Agnes Orphanage, an orphanage managed by nuns. A difficult fate for any child, doubly so for a blind one.

But as Matt found out, anything bad could turn worse in a split second.

The chemical waste that had taken his sight when he was nine, had also done something unexpected: it had enhanced his other senses to an unbearable level. It happened slowly, gradually, but eventually the lowest sound became a roaring echo, the gentlest touches sent shockwaves throughout his body, the softest smells were able to make his head spin and his tongue could taste things even far away from his mouth.

It got to the point that Matt couldn't do anything but whimper in pain. Until Stick arrived.

The nuns, unable to do anything to help Matt, searched for outside help; Stick was what they found. But truth be told, Matt doubted the nuns really had any idea of who they were hiring.

Stick did what he was hired for. He taught Matt to control his gifts, to use his senses to see much more than he was able to see when his eyes still worked. He taught Matt how to meditate, how to harness chi, how to find balance.

And after all that, he taught Matt to be warrior.

Matt was still a child, but he learned everything he could. And he learned well. Stick was a harsh master, but a knowledgeable one, and Matt took to his lessons with all the enthusiasm only a prodigy could muster. His gifts were honed and soon enough he learned just how much they completed his skills.

Stick wasn't wrong, Matt was a warrior. But not just that.

"That's not all I am," Matt said, finally.

"A warrior," Stick repeated, "heir to the Spartans, baddest of the badasses. They knew what they had to do and they did it." He stared at Matt. "What are you doing here, Matty? Having your fun beating the shit out of some petty thieves? Running around in a weird mask?"

"I'm helping," Matt said, barely containing his anger. "I'm keeping people safe."

"Two, three people a night?" Stick scoffed. "What's the difference?"

"To the people I saved? All the difference in the world."

"There's a war coming, Matty. Bigger than any of that scum out there. You think punching Russians means anything? Look at what they did to them. Blown to little bits in a single night."

That made Matt stop.

"Who did that?" he asked.

"The Hand, the very people I trained you to fight," Stick countered, surprising Matt. "What? You think I go around orphanages teaching blind kids to punch? No, Matty, you're special. A true warrior. And it's time for you to acknowledge that and stop living a lie. It's time for you to fight the war you were born to fight."

Few things surprised Matt anymore, but recent days were proving themselves unusual. Not only there was all that business of being framed for the murder of a Russian boss and ending up meeting Superman in the middle of an explosion – even learning his identity –, he also found Stick on the roof of his building, a man he hadn't seen in twenty years.

And now he learned that Stick was training him as a child to fight some war. He didn't know what to say.

"The Hand is coming, Matty, and they are worse than anything you've faced," Stick said. "Mobs? Drug dealers? They're nothing, less than nothing. Pawns in a game they don't even know they're playing."

"You…" Matt started, his voice failing. "You're crazy. You tried to recruit me to fight an imaginary war when I was a kid? What is this? Some kind of indoctrination camp?"

"There's nothing imaginary about the Hand, kid," Stick replied. "They've been here, killing, committing atrocities, for centuries. The greatest criminal organizations in history were nothing but tools to them. They're the real deal. And we're losing."

Matt stepped back, unwilling to keep listening to all this, but unable to just leave.

"You must have realized by now that this isn't the usual game, right?" Stick said. "Criminals are not behaving as they should. Almost as if they're–"

"Working together," Matt finished. "Yes, I noticed. It's a new world out there, Stick. There's an alien flying around faster than a speeding bullet and an entire group of superheroes living in a tower in the middle of New York. Criminals are being forced to adapt."

Stick rolled his blind eyes.

"These guys have been around for a while, Matty. This isn't the first time they had to deal with gods coming down from the heavens, it isn't anything new for them." Stick shook his head. "No, this doesn't have anything to do with Superman. Someone is organizing them, calling the shots. Who do you think that is?" Matt opened his mouth to answer, but Stick was faster. "Fisk?"

Matt felt his blood turn cold. How did Stick know about this? No one even knew who this Fisk guy was.

"Where did you hear that name?" Matt asked.

"Fisk? He's the Hand newest busboy. Sure, an important busboy, but that's what he is. The Hand is using him to take New York by the balls."

"Fisk is the one behind all this," Matt countered. "The one controlling the Russians, the Japanese and the Chinese."

"Yeah, and the Hand is the one controlling him." Stick stopped. "I wonder if he even knows that. Doesn't matter. In the end, a tool is a tool."

"He has mobsters so scared that they prefer to kill themselves than to say anything about him," Matt objected.

"A dangerous tool," Stick granted. "You don't want a sword stuck in your neck, but it doesn't make it any more than what it is: a tool. That's what Fisk is. You've been fighting the wrong opponent all this time."

"And where is this Hand you're so afraid of?" Matt exclaimed, impatient. "Because I haven't heard anything about them yet."

"How long has it been since you heard about Fisk?"

Well, he had a point there, Matt unwillingly recognized.

"The Hand is everywhere, Matty," Stick said. "They have people inside every criminal organization, inside every government, inside every law enforcement unit. Right now? I'm after the ones inside Yakuza. There's a guy there, pretty high-ranked, goes by Nobu these days. He's tasked to bring something inside New York."

"What? Drugs?"

"A weapon. The weapon. Something called Black Sky."

"What is it?"

"Something you don't want in your world, trust me."

Matt sighed, taking both his hands to his face. Talking to Stick remained as exhausting as it was when he was a kid.

"Okay, assuming I believe you," Matt began, slowly, "what do you want? Why are you here?" He stared at Stick. "It couldn't be to get my help, could it?"

Stick sipped his beer. "I want you to help yourself." Matt scoffed, but that didn't deter Stick. "Nobu and his guys are in tight with Fisk. You hurt them, you hurt baldy–"

"You know who Fisk is?" Matt asked, urgently.

"I know a lot of shit. For instance, I know you made an interesting acquaintance last night and for some reason he didn't turn you into mush. Now, why would that happen? If I met a guy in a mask that spent his nights beating people up, I would've certainly called the police."

Matt didn't react to what Stick said, but he didn't like where that conversation was going. He might not have known Clark for long, but his secret identity was a secret worth keeping. He didn't trust Stick with it.

Truth be told, he didn't trust Stick all that much with anything.

"He knows we're on the same side," Matt said, careful not to give anything.

"Hmm. And what side would that be? The bleeding-heart idealists one, clinging to half-measures? 'Cause I don't need that. I need a soldier. Committed."

"You don't know anything about what I'm doing here," Matt answered, unamused.

Stick leaned closer.

"Kid, in war, people die," he said. "If it's not you, it's the guy next to you. How many men have you killed protecting this city?" He waited a moment for the answer he already knew; Matt said nothing. "You're still afraid to cross that line. The alien? He can afford it. He's bullet proof, he's strong, he's fast. He's a god playing with insects. You? Someday it's gonna come down to you or the other guy. If it's not Fisk, somebody else. What're you gonna do then?"

Matt breathed deeply. No answer came from him.

"Half-measures, Matty. Sometimes they're worse than doing nothing. They give the illusion you're getting shit done, when you're not actually doing anything."

Finishing his beer, Stick tossed the bottle up, hitting the trash can behind him.

"Ah, screw it!" he exclaimed. "Let's go. Help me stop Black Sky, keep it off the streets, and I promise you this: Wilson Fisk will know the taste of fear the day he faces you, 'cause he'll know that you kicked the guy he's afraid of right in the nuts. What do you say, kid?"

Matt kept his blind eyes fixed on Stick for a long time. Then he finally stated:

"One rule: you don't kill anybody."

Stick groaned, but raised his hand in the air. "I swear no human being will die by my hand." Then he added. "Pussy."

He rolled his eyes.

"Where is this 'Black Sky' thing?" Matt asked.

"If my sources are right, it'll arrive at the docks tonight."

Plenty of time, then.

"Meet me here at the end of the day," Matt said, turning to his room.

That seemed to surprise Stick.

"What? Where are going?"

"Work."

"You've got to be shitting me! Have you heard nothing of I just said?"

"I heard plenty," Matt retorted. "I still have to go to work. All this 'expensive shit' doesn't pay itself."

"Cut it loose, kid," Stick said, and he sounded serious for the first time. "Your job. Your friends. People you care about. For their sake. Break their hearts if you have to, just do it quick. Relationships are a luxury men like you and me can't afford."

"Is that why you left?" Matt asked before he could stop himself. "To protect me?"

There was a long silence.

"I had my reasons," Stick said, simply.

"I was a kid!"

"You still are," Stick retorted, mockingly. "'Boo-ho, Stick left me. Think I'll bury my sorrows between the legs of a supermodel.'"

"Don't push it, Stick," Matt warned him.

"Or what?" he challenged. "I'm trying to teach you how to stay alive. Christ, you're worse than your old man! Born to lose Battlin' Jack! At least your daddy got paid when he hit the floor."

Matt saw red and lunged forward, grabbing Stick by his shirt.

And before he could even understand what happened, he was spinning in the air, falling flat on his back right in the middle of his apartment.

"Still as easy as it was twenty years ago, kid," Stick said, slowly shaking his head. "Bury your emotions, bury your compassion or you'll be the one ending up buried." He waited a second. "Or your friends, depending on how it goes."

Saying this, he walked to the door, leaving Matt on the floor.

"I'll see you later, then. Bring your new acquaintance, if you can. I think he can be useful."

Matt sighed, feeling the anger leaving him slowly. He didn't know what to think.

Clark shuffled the pile of high-quality photos he had just printed until he finally found the one he was looking for: the stone door leading to the underground dragon burial site, right under the frozen ground of Pyramiden.

More importantly, the photo highlighting the unknown language etched on the door.

"This one here," Clark said, walking to the comfortable chair where Thor was sitting, a half-eaten Pop-Tart in his hands; the one snack always available in the Avengers Tower since Thor began to visit regularly.

Many things could be said about Tony, but he was a good host or at least Pepper was.

"Can you translate it for me?" Clark asked, hopeful.

Stuffing the entire Pop-Tart in his mouth, Thor grabbed the photo and studied it. Clark and Natasha stared, almost holding their breaths, anxious for some kind of answer because the databases they checked – which were pretty much all of them – gave them nothing but disappointment.

When Thor's eyes beamed with recognition, Clark almost cheered.

"This is an old dialect from the Seven Capital Cities of Heaven, K'un-Lun specifically," Thor finally said, eyes going from the photo to them and then back to the photo. "They are old allies of Asgard. It reads: 'Here lies Ao Shun, Dragon King of Winter. May you find redemption in the Final Death.'"

Clark looked at Natasha, eyes wide; so that skeleton truly was a dragon! Before he could say anything, however, Thor went on:

"By the Allfather, it has been centuries since I thought about this!" he exclaimed.

"You knew him?" Clark asked, surprised.

Thor nodded. "Aye, I was the one who killed him during the Great Culling of the Wyrms." He hesitated, as if remembering something painful. "Loki and I. My brother pulled him down from the skies and I cut off his head with my old axe, Jarnbjorn."

Clark was so stunned by what Thor said that he almost didn't hear Natasha's question.

"'Great Culling of the Wyrms?'" she asked.

There was no emotion behind her words, no accusation, but Clark knew her well enough to notice how irked she was; yet again an important piece of information about their world's history was completely unknown to them.

And yet again Thor hadn't shared what he no doubt thought it was common knowledge. One of these days Natasha would grab Thor and interrogate him for days, even if she had to threaten the global production of Pop-Tarts for that to happen.

Fury would have a fit when he heard about this and Natasha, so far, was the one taking the brunt of his bad moods. Sooner or later she would find a way to redirect that to them, Natasha was crafty like that.

Clark wasn't looking forward to that.

"The result of the Civil War in K'un-Lun, Realm of Dragons," Thor explained, calmly, as if talking about the weather. "Many centuries ago, a group of dragons rebelled against K'un-Lun. Their war grew so fierce that in no time it spilled all over Midgard. My Father sent Loki and I to help restore the order, to protect Midgard from the Betrayers and to aid our allies from K'un-Lun." He smiled, looking at them. "The old days. Loki, Sif, the Warriors Three and I leading a force of Einherjar against an army of dragons. We would fight all day, feast at night, regale the women with our stories – and our company – and then do everything all over again the next day." Thor sighed, eyes far away. "I miss it, sometimes. It was a simpler time."

Natasha's eyes reflected the exact opposite of Thor's.

"There was a war between Asgardians and dragons, here, in our world?" she asked.

Thor apparently noticed her less than amused tone.

"Well, the Gate to K'un-Lun is located on Midgard," Thor explained, sheepishly. "Somewhere to the lands of the East."

Natasha closed her eyes and breathed deeply.

"Are you telling me," she said, eyes opening slowly, "that we have a direct gateway to a land full of hostile dragons?" Natasha asked, her eyes now fixed on Thor's. "And you did not deem to mention it?"

Despite being the literal God of Thunder, Thor glanced in Clark's direction as if asking for help.

"No, no, K'un-Lun is not an enemy! And the Gate is not always open," he said, quickly. "K'un-Lun, all the Seven Capital Cities of Heaven, are located inside a – what did Loki call it? – a pocket dimension. A world within a world. And the Gate to it only opens every fifteen years or so." Realizing Natasha was listening, he went on. "When those dragons arrived on Midgard, millennia ago, they used their powers to create this world. They crafted an entire dimension and within it they built the Seven Capital Cities of Heaven. In time, they allowed a few chosen humans to enter their Realm and live with them. They taught those chosen humans how to harness the energy of life, chi. How to use chi to heal, to extend their lifespan, to reach absolute balance. And so dragons and humans lived in harmony for a very long time."

Clark could barely contain his surprised awe. In Ancient China, dragons were sometimes worshiped much like other people worshiped Asgardians once upon a time; now he could see why. An advanced civilization, composed of individuals so much more powerful than humans, had taken residence in those lands and even shared knowledge.

He wondered how much of China's culture had been influenced by K'un-Lun and its dragons. Given how much the Nordic people were influenced by the Asgardians, Clark supposed the dragons had inspired their share of changes.

And it still ended in war when humans were invited to live amongst them. Clark held a sad sigh.

"Somehow I think that the 'Great Culling of the Wyrms' was the end of that partnership," Clark mentioned.

"On the contrary," Thor retorted, surprising him. "While many dragons followed the Betrayers – and many humans as well –, many more stood for what K'un-Lun represented. The dragons and the Elders of K'un-Lun, led by the Iron Fist and the dragon Shou-Lao, fought against those who wanted nothing but power. They stood at our side against the Betrayers and when the war was over, they banished them and restored order to the Seven Capital Cities of Heaven." He pointed at the photo of the tomb. "This was what became of the Betrayers."

"They were all killed?" Clark asked.

Thor tilted his head. "Hmm, more or less. To the dragons of the Seven Capital Cities of Heaven, the ones who mastered the art of harnessing the essence of life, chi, death does not mean the same it does for us. They die, sure, but given enough time they can come back to life. Death is more of a nuisance for them than anything else."

He had heard of "chi", of course, but to know it really existed and that it could be used to reach effective immortality was astonishing. Could humans do the same? Thor said that the dragons shared their knowledge, but it still was quite a leap between that and immortal humans.

Clark was impressed by all this, but it was the wrong thing to say if Thor wanted to reassure Natasha that all was well.

"So what you're really telling us is that we have several tombs throughout the world," she started, "filled with dangerous dragons that will, eventually, come back to life to continue their war? And you said nothing about this before?"

Thor widened his eyes almost comically.

"No, no, no! That is what the tombs are for!" he defended himself. "These are not normal tombs, they were made to prevent these dragons from coming back to life. They are heavily warded and the seals present in them are meant to keep the Betrayers from resurrecting themselves. As long as they are inside, they will not come back," he finished, smiling reassuringly.

The smile dropped from his face when he noticed Clark and Natasha looked worried.

"What?" Thor asked, confused.

"The dragon," Clark began, hesitantly, "his skeleton, wasn't there. A criminal organization named "The Hand" broke into the tomb and took it."

Natasha turned to Thor. "How long do we have until it comes back to life?"

Thor shook his head. "It will not come back to life by itself, not after spending all this time inside that tomb, this I can guarantee," he said. "I was not part of the group that built those tombs, but Loki was and he told me a great deal about it… No matter how little I wanted to hear. Without help from a powerful source of mystical energy, none of those dragons will ever come back. And I dare say there is no such source on Midgard. This 'Hand' cannot bring a dragon back to life, whoever they are."

This wasn't enough to make Clark relax, but at least it wasn't an urgent matter. They would have to recover the bones from the Hand, of course, but the fact that they couldn't revive it was a relief, to say the least; the last thing they needed was a dragon war.

He tried to imagine the scale of such conflict. Asgardians, dragons, humans, fighting side by side and against each other. It was a terrifying thought.

Was the Hand connected to K'un-Lun and the dragons in some way? Or they simply found the skeletons and planned to use it to acquire power? Thor didn't know about them, that much was clear, but according to Natasha they had dozens of different names over the years, so that didn't mean much. They would have to find out.

"Do you know where the rest of the tombs are?" Clark asked Thor, suddenly. The thought of one dragon skeleton in the Hand's possession was bad enough, much less a whole army of them.

He shook his head. "No… But Asgard probably has this information somewhere," Thor added. "I could look into it."

"That would be helpful, thanks," Clark said, tapping his shoulder. If they knew the Hand's targets, they could intercept them.

Thor smiled and went back to eat his Pop-Tarts; that is, until he noticed Natasha was still staring at him.

"What, now?" Thor exclaimed.

"Do you have anything more important to do now? Or are you planning to spend the entire day eating new 'Midgardian treats' again?" Natasha asked, her tone implying that she knew very well what Thor would end up doing.

"Well, I was going to… No, nothing more important than saving lives," Thor suddenly announced. He stared at them for a moment. "Because that is what heroes do."

So he couldn't tell 'no' to Natasha as well; it was good to know Clark wasn't the only one.

Stuffing his mouth with the rest of his Pop-Tarts, Thor got up, said his goodbyes to them, and ran to the top of the Avengers Tower, where he could call for the Bifrost. Clark made a note to take him out for a day of junk food when he came back, Thor would like that.

Natasha turned to him, a weary look on her face.

"I can't even imagine Fury's reaction…" Natasha sighed. "He's not a young man anymore, Clark. One of these days…" She slightly shook her head, as if dispelling those thoughts. "Now, I'm going to talk to Vladimir, see what he knows about all this. He should be waking up by now. Do you want to come?"

"I was actually thinking about meeting Matt Murdock," Clark admitted. "Unless you need a hand, of course," he added quickly.

Natasha looked as focused as ever, but she had just lost someone. Maybe not someone she called a friend, but someone she cared about nonetheless. Nothing in her behavior indicated that anything was wrong, but Clark knew better.

She lifted a single eyebrow, as if remembering just now who actually had delivered Vladimir to her.

"That is actually a good idea. He might have important information as well." Natasha nodded and started walking towards the elevator. "Keep me posted. I'll call you if Vladimir gives me something juicy."

"See you later," Clark said, grabbing his phone and walking to the window. Hopefully, Matt wouldn't be busy right now.

Like most cheap places in the "Post-Incident Hell's Kitchen", the building where Matt's office was located was a bit unkept – not as much as the building where he lived, before Tony got his hands on it, but nearly there. Clark got there in a matter of minutes, flying slow to give Matt at least a little bit of time to prepare himself after he called, and soon enough he was right in front of his office.

The door opened when Clark was about to knock; enhanced senses, he forgot about those.

"Please, come in," Matt said, somewhat stiffly, greeting him with a nod.

He did so, taking a moment to look around as Matt closed the door. Like he imagined, the place looked as old on the inside as it did on the outside. The furniture was clearly second-hand, there were boxes piled up on a corner and the office seemed to have only the bare minimum to functionate.

Just what he would expect of a first office of two lawyers with limited funding.

"Nice place," Clark said, politely.

Matt chuckled. "No, it's not. But I like it."

Clark smiled at that. It did have character, he agreed. More importantly, it didn't make people feel intimidated by simply entering, which was a good thing if Matt and Foggy intended to use their profession to help people in need instead of playing with the law to get rich.

But he wasn't there to judge how nice Matt's office was.

"Is Foggy arriving soon?" Clark asked, already knowing that they were alone there.

Matt gestured for him to follow and entered another room, sitting down at a table. Clark sat in front of him.

"If I recall correctly," Matt answered, "Foggy was going to visit a client this morning. We have time to talk."

And then they just stared at each other for a few seconds, an awkward silence setting in. Matt glanced at him from behind those red lenses and Clark glanced back, seeing himself reflected on his glasses.

Truth be told, Clark was still surprised at the identity of the Masked Vigilante. How couldn't he be? Not only he knew Matt, but there was also the tiny little detail of him being blind; by all accounts, that should've removed him from the possible suspects list right then and there.

There was also the sorry state he left any and all criminals he crossed paths with. Not something he would expect from someone who appeared so calm and collected.

And yet here they were.

"Are you a mutant?" Clark asked, suddenly, curious as to how Matt did what he did.

There was a moment of silence.

"No, I wasn't born with my abilities," Matt answered. He hesitated. "When I was a kid, I was involved in an accident. Pushed a man out of the way of a truck. He lived, but I was drenched in whatever chemicals the truck was carrying." He gestured towards his eyes. "Burned my eyes almost instantaneously."

Clark flinched. He couldn't even imagine how terrible that must've felt, how afraid Matt must've been when he noticed his vision was gone. No one, much less a child, should ever go through something like that.

"But that's not all they did," Matt continued, grasping Clark's attention once again. "Slowly, my other senses got better. Way better. To the point where lying down in a soft bed, inside a quiet room, was enough to send them haywire. I could listen and feel everything, at all times, so much that it hurt."

Enhanced senses… A blessing and a curse. Clark knew that very well.

"I know the feeling," Clark admitted, sympathetic to what Matt went through.

"Do you?" Matt asked, somehow skeptic.

Clark chuckled. "I wasn't always Superman, Matt. I was a kid once. A kid from another world, trying to adapt to an environment my kind was not supposed to live in. My senses, like yours, got better with time. Way better. So fast and with such intensity that I barely had time to cope." He leaned forward a bit. "I could hear people whispering at the other side of the town, taste food without even putting it in my mouth, smell a particularly foul sewer four cities away… My mom had to pick me up in school once because I started seeing inside people. Can you imagine how scared I was?"

He wasn't sure what surprised Matt the most: the fact that he suffered with his super-senses too or the fact that Superman needed his mother to pick him up in school once.

It didn't occur to most people that Superman wasn't Superman at all times. Good thing for his life as Clark Kent, certainly, but it made him look like a perfect, unshakable being. Like a god. That wasn't good at all.

"How did you learn to control your senses?" Clark asked.

"I had help," Matt admitted. "The nuns in the orphanage found a man who could teach me how to control my gifts, how to use them so well that I could 'see' better now that I was blind than before when I still had my vision."

Clark was a bit surprised to know Matt lived in an orphanage, but he didn't pry. It wasn't any of his business.

What was his business, however, was the Masked Vigilante's actions.

"And how did you go from learning to control your gifts to beating up Russian mobsters?"

Matt leaned forward a bit as well.

"You said you have enhanced senses as well, didn't you?" Matt asked. Clark nodded. "How long could you keep hearing people calling for help until you just had to do something?" He turned to the windows. "Muggings, assaults, a man beating his wife, a child being molested… There's a point when you have to do something, otherwise you're just as bad as the people doing all that." He stared. "Don't you agree?"

"There's a big difference between fighting to help," Clark retorted, eyes fixed on Matt's, "and beating someone half to death."

"You think those guys deserve any better?" Matt exclaimed, surprised. "You think they wouldn't do far worse to an innocent for no reason at all? Do you think they didn't do it already?"

"This is not about them, Matt, this is about you! I've seen some of the criminals you captured. You didn't fight simply to defeat them, you fought to make them suffer. How long until you make a mistake and go overboard? How long until you actually kill someone by accident?"

"That's not going to happen," Matt scoffed.

"How long until you kill someone on purpose?" Clark retorted.

Matt was offended by this.

"We can't all be bulletproof and super-strong, Superman," Matt said. "Some of us bleed. I don't have the luxury to pull my punches. But I'm never killing someone. That's a line I won't cross."

"Matt, what you did to those men wasn't necessary, they were never a match to you. It was rage. Pure and simple." Clark got closer, trying to convey the importance of what he wanted to say. "You knew what they did, what they intended to do, and you hurt them for it. But is that the reason you're doing this? To hurt them? You have to decide, Matt, right now, if are doing this to help innocent people or simply to hurt the bad guys."

"Isn't that the same thing in the end?"

"No. One of those you're doing for others. The other you're just doing for yourself."

Matt breathed deeply and Clark could feel the anger irradiating from his body. Not directed at him, he knew that, but at the very people Matt and Clark fought every day, the people who would hurt and kill anyone to achieve their goals.

"You don't understand," Matt finally said.

"I took a life before," Clark said, almost whispering. He could still remember the feeling of Zod's neck snapping as if he had committed the deed the minute before and he knew that feeling would never go away. "General Zod, the last of my kind. I didn't have a choice, he would've destroyed the entire planet out of spite and there was no one powerful enough to keep him from doing it, no other way to stop him. Rationally, I know this. Emotionally?"

He fixed his eyes on Matt, trying to convey just how serious he was.

"Emotionally… Even though Zod was a genocidal murderer, the same one who killed my biological father and countless others, I still regret it. I regret that I couldn't find another way, that I had to kill him with my own hands." Clark exhaled. "I regret how easy it was to do it, to just… End a life."

Matt snapped his head up, surprised.

"Easy?" he repeated.

"Easy," Clark affirmed, completely somber. "One moment he was there, the next he wasn't. Problem solved, right?" He smiled without humor. "Not really. I can still feel his neck breaking and I still have nightmares about it. But the killing itself? Quick. Simple. And just like that, an entire being is gone, never to return."

He leaned closer.

"I understand better than you think," Clark said. "I can hear it too, remember? I know how utterly evil some people are. And sometimes… Sometimes I want to hurt them too. Badly." He inhaled deeply. "But I also know that if I do that, if I take this step, I'll sacrifice everything I am. I'll trade what's right for what's easy and this new person I would become… I'm afraid of him." Clark looked at Matt. "I'm here to help people, Matt, that's what I do. To help them to be better. What about you?"

Clark kept his eyes fixed on Matt for a whole minute.

"Find out what you really are, Matt. What's really important to you. Because if you end up killing someone just because you wanted that person to suffer, I'll personally take you to jail."

Matt didn't answer for a long while, thinking about what Clark said. Because like it or not, he was right. Matt wanted to help people, he never lied about that. It was the very reason why he began doing what he did, to save lives.

But the other part of what Clark said was true as well, Matt wouldn't even bother trying to deny it.

He liked to hurt those people, to be the answer to their evil deeds. Murderers, rapists, human traffickers, the scum of the Earth… Matt wanted to hurt them as much as he could, so they could suffer, just a little bit, what their victims suffered. It felt good.

To let the Devil out.

What did it say about him, though? Nothing nice, that was for sure. As a catholic, Matt knew that very well. There was a line he simply couldn't bring himself to cross – murder –, but that didn't mean he thought beating people half to death was right. It wasn't. That didn't mean he didn't enjoy it.

And that was the root of the problem. How long could he keep feeding those desires? How long until the Devil inside him took the reins?

How long until he turned into Stick?

Matt let out a long sigh.

"I will keep what you said in mind," Matt finally said. By the frown on Clark's face, he wasn't thrilled with the answer, so quickly added: "Did you find out anything from Vladimir?"

It was clearly a deflection and of course Clark noticed, but like it or not they did have more important things to talk about.

"Natasha was about to interrogate him when I called you," Clark answered. "We still don't know anything."

"What about the rest of the Russians? And the Chinese suicide bombers?"

"The Russians are talking, but most of them aren't saying anything new. The Chinese… They just keep singing," he said, sounding more than a little disturbed. "I really don't know what's the deal with them, but I'm pretty sure they're not helping." Clark sighed, visibly bothered by that. "I hope Vladimir gives us something."

Matt hoped too, but at least he couldn't say that last night was a waste of time. The Russians were pretty much done for in New York. With the amount of weapons and bombs they were caught with, they would all stay in jail for a long time. Most would try to cut deals to reduce time, giving up the truly dangerous ones – murderers, rapists, traffickers... – and soon they would have a little bit of peace on that front.

All because of the man in front of him.

Matt still couldn't rightly believe in what happened. It took Superman a matter of minutes to capture the entire Russian mob in Hell's Kitchen. That amount of power was incredible and, frankly, scary. When Superman started his offensive against the Russian mob, it was never a question if he could win; it was a question of how many minutes it would take for him to win.

He could understand why Clark was so concerned with morals. Someone with that much power… If he were to abandon his ideals, the consequences would be earth shattering. Matt knew the amount of damage that he could cause if he abandoned his and he was just human.

Superman's decisions had the power to change the entire world. Hell, maybe even beyond. It was easy to feel small next to someone like that.

And all this time, he was apparently living a normal life as a mild-mannered reporter. Matt didn't really know what to think of that.

"What we found out, from another source," Clark continued, grabbing Matt's attention once again, "was the name of two other parties involved in all this. One is a man named Wilson–"

"Fisk," Matt finished for him, his voice hard.

"You know about him?" Clark asked, interested.

"I know his name. And that he's the one in charge of everyone involved in any criminal enterprise in New York. But no one will talk, they're too scared. What do you have on him?"

"Nothing but the name," Clark admitted. "It's like he doesn't exist. Not even SHIELD's databases have anything about him and that's saying something." He lifted his chin. "But from what I've heard, Wilson Fisk might not be the one in charge after all. There's another organization calling the shots. They're called–"

"The Hand," Matt breathed before Clark could finish, his voice betraying his surprise. Could Stick be actually telling the truth?

This time, Clark was even more interested.

"The Hand," he agreed. "I heard some things about them… Nothing good. Had a taste of their work too, recently. They killed my source, brutally."

"So they're actually real…" Matt sighed, still not believing this was happening.

"You knew about them, but didn't think they were real?" Clark asked, lifting an eyebrow.

"Let's just say that my source wasn't that reliable." Matt could sense Clark wanted to know more, but how exactly could he explain Stick? That was a tough one. "You remember that I said the orphanage hired someone to help me control my gifts? That 'someone' was a man named Stick. He was the one who taught me how to truly use my senses… And the one who taught me how to fight."

Clark raised both eyebrows.

"The man the nuns hired taught you to fight?" he exclaimed. "Well enough for you to beat mobsters by the dozen with your bare hands?"

"I thought it was just a way to hone my instincts," Matt admitted. "To teach me discipline. Apparently I was wrong."

"What do you mean?"

"Stick wasn't there to teach a blind kid to survive. He was training a soldier to fight a war. A war against the Hand." Clark sat up straighter. Matt shook his head, still shocked by the whole thing. "I had never even heard about this until this morning. Stick left way back then without mentioning anything. But he's here now."

"Here? In New York?" Clark asked.

"He was waiting for me after I came back last night. He wants my help."

"With what?"

Matt sighed again. "With the war. The Hand is here and they're bringing something called 'Black Sky'. A weapon of some kind. It will arrive at the docks tonight. According to him, it's not something we want anywhere near Hell's Kitchen." Matt chuckled when the silence extended itself. "Yeah, that was my reaction too. I thought the old man had finally cracked. But you're not crazy, are you? The Hand is real."

"It is," Clark agreed, slowly, still stunned by the turn of events. "Tonight?"

"Tonight. He actually told me to pass you the message," Matt added. Clark raised a single eyebrow. "Yeah, I know. I wouldn't be too thrilled about jumping into this without knowing any details, but if Stick is right we need to be there." He stared at Clark for a moment. "Is the Hand truly real? Do we have to worry about this?"

There was, once again, a long silence. Then Clark nodded.

"They are. And I think we have to worry about this quite a lot."

Damn Stick, Matt thought, annoyed. It was just like him to stay away for years and then come back to throw a metaphorical bomb on him. A war against a secret criminal organization. A war that he was unknowingly trained to fight. This wasn't easy to swallow, that was for certain. It didn't seem like something that would happen outside of fiction.

But here he was: a blind vigilante warrior discussing a secret criminal organization with a super-powered alien, right in the middle of his law firm.

His life had been weird for a long time now, Matt had to accept that.

Both of them were so focused on the conversation that they only heard the approaching steps a few seconds before the door opened violently.

"Matt, you're here!" Foggy all but yelled, entering the office in a hurry, Karen right behind him. He stopped, surprised, when he saw Clark. "Clark? You're here too!"

"Clark?" Karen exclaimed, eyes wide.

"Karen?" Clark asked, equally surprised; but not as surprised as Matt. How did they know each other? "What are you doing here?"

"I work here! What are you doing here?" she shot back.

"I… I asked Matt for a consultation about… The law." He stammered. "About a case!"

"Wait, do you know each other?" Foggy asked, looking from Karen to Clark. Then he looked at Matt. "Forget about that! Matt! I've been trying to reach you since last night!"

"What?" Matt stopped, confused.

"The explosions? Damn it, Matt! I thought you died! Would it kill you to return any of the 156 calls I made?!"

Almost in a trance, Matt grabbed his phone; his still turned-off phone, since last night. With everything that happened, he simply forgot to check it.

"I guess my battery must've ran out," he said, slowly.

"That's it?!" Foggy exclaimed. "Do you have any idea how worried we were? Tell him, Karen!"

"We were pretty worried," Karen confirmed. "With everything that happened with the gang war and Superman…"

"We thought you died!" Foggy added, with a lot less tact. "We even knocked on your door for almost an hour, I was this close to breaking in… Or trying to, at least."

Matt tried to imagine how freaked out Claire was when Foggy started to knock on his door. What if he had broken in? But Foggy wasn't done talking; He pointed at Matt.

"Next time this happens, I'm warning you right now, I'll break that damn door, whatever the cost! You can't scare me like that, Matt."

He was filled with guilt. He didn't deserve friends like them.

"I'm sorry. Both of you. I don't know what happened to my phone," he apologized. "But I'm alright."

"Yeah, I can see that," Foggy retorted, still incensed, but calming down. He sighed, then turned to Clark, raising his hand. "Sorry about that, Clark. It's really good to see you again."

"It's nice to see you too, Foggy," Clark smiled, shaking his hand.

"How do you know each other?" Karen asked, looking as dumbfounded as Matt felt. New York wasn't a small city for people to just meet each other like that.

"We met at a bar," Matt explained, omitting the part where they played pool with the Avengers – and the part where the Avengers, and Superman, ended up arrested for a bar fight. Before Foggy could ruin all that, he added: "How do you know each other?"

Because that was surprising. As far as he knew, Karen had nothing to do with either Clark or Superman.

"Clark has been helping me with some… stuff," Karen said, slowly, clearly unwilling to say more.

Clark shared a quick look with Matt – something neither Foggy nor Karen picked up, simply because of the fact that he was blind –, promising a more detailed answer later. Matt was curious now.

Foggy was curious too, but quite visibly for another reason entirely: from his wide eyes and quick heartbeat, Matt could tell that he was worried.

And jealous.

"Anyway, Clark, I need to talk to you about something," Karen said, quickly, grabbing Clark's arm. "Could we step outside for a bit? It will only take a moment."

"Umm, sure," Clark answered, quickly, allowing her to drag him out. He looked at Matt. "I'll be right back."

When the door closed, Foggy couldn't hold it any longer.

"Oh, no, no, no… This can't be happening. They're dating!" he exclaimed.

Matt sighed. This would be a long conversation.

Natasha stuck the needle in Vladimir's neck and watched as the colorless liquid slowly traveled from the syringe into his body, his muscles spasming slightly. Then she got around the table, sat down and waited.

After the whole ordeal with Sergei's escape from her safe-house and his subsequent murder, Natasha saw it fit to put Vladimir somewhere else, somewhere more secure; maybe the Avengers Tower wasn't exactly the best place for that, but at least it was a place Vladimir would not leave unless she allowed him too.

Thankfully, Stark and Pepper were on a business trip, in another country, otherwise she was certain things wouldn't be that simple. Tony had a knack for complicating things.

Vladimir was beginning to stir, the chemicals in his blood doing their work, so Natasha prepared herself to begin the interrogation. In front of her was the boss of the Russian Mafia in New York, probably their best chance of acquiring more in-depth information on the Hand and their associates. A priceless chance that they couldn't let it pass.

Clark and Matthew Murdock had done their part in capturing Vladimir before the Hand could kill him; now it was time for her to shine.

"Urgh," Vladimir groaned, his eyes opening slowly. He moved a bit, probably still too dazed to even know what was happening.

Right until the moment his arms were prevented to move further because of the handcuffs attached to the floor.

It was like watching a startled animal. Vladimir's eyes opened fully and his entire body snapped to attention, forcing the handcuffs. The chair would've fallen down if it were not bolted to the floor, as Vladimir tried to get up.

Natasha simply watched, without even blinking, waiting for Vladimir's mind to catch-up with his instincts. He struggled for a few more seconds and then, finally, realized he was not alone in the room; his entire body froze at her sight.

There was fear there. Good; no introductions were necessary.

"Sit," Natasha spoke, her eyes fixed on him. "We have a lot to talk about."

Vladimir kept staring back for almost a minute, his body still, as if he was locked in a cage with a lion. Then, slowly, he sat down.

And chuckled, almost hysterically.

"At least my death will come from the hands of a compatriot," Vladimir said in Russian, looking down and laughing even louder.

Natasha just waited, assessing him. He looked terrible. His face was bruised, as was most of his body, but it wasn't the injuries that stood out, it was the aura of exhaustion. She was looking at a man reaching his limits. Stress, grief, fear… They left marks on the body and Vladimir was reeking of that.

A man who had nothing to lose. Those were always annoying to interrogate.

"I am not here to kill you," Natasha finally said, her voice little more than a whisper. "I am here to talk."

"Yeah? Well, I've got nothing to talk about with you."

"I disagree," Natasha retorted. "I think you know lots of things that I'd like to know too. Things about your associates. About Wilson Fisk. About the Hand."

His head snapped up and his entire body tensed when she uttered those names.

"Like I said," Vladimir began, anger etched on his face, "I have nothing say. And there isn't anything you can do about that."

That was not true at all, Natasha thought to herself; there were several things she could do to make him talk, about anything. If she so desired, Natasha knew she could rip him apart piece by piece, until there was nothing left of the man standing in front of her. Pain, drugs, fear… The human mind had very clear limits, no matter what Vladimir's bravado might've suggested. She knew that for a fact. Everybody had a breaking point and Natasha was good at finding that point.

But that wasn't the type of person she wanted to be anymore. There was enough red on her ledger.

No, there were other ways to handle this issue, less bloody ways. Extending her arm, not bothered in the least by his defiance, Natasha grabbed the pile of photos she had set previously on the table, slowly going through them until she found what she was looking for.

"It's weird to see such loyalty to the people who decapitated your brother," Natasha said, her tone almost carefree, as if she were remarking on a mildly curious tidbit.

Vladimir did not react with the same carefreeness.

He lunged forward like a rabid animal, trying to reach her, the fury etched on his face; Natasha didn't even blink, her eyes fixed on his as she waited for him to tire himself fighting the chains uselessly.

Still ignoring him, she started to organize the pictures over the table, as if creating a montage.

"DON'T EVER TALK ABOUT MY BROTHER, YOU BITCH!" he roared. It was one of the few things Natasha was able to understand from the many unintelligible screams, grunts and snarls that came out of his mouth.

Sergei had mentioned before that Vladimir was an angry one, Natasha recalled.

"Not even if it's about his killer?" she asked, suddenly, interrupting him before he could go on. "Or should I say, killers?"

"The Masked Man killed my brother," Vladimir spat. "Don't even try to lie to me!"

"Did he?" Natasha questioned, raising a single eyebrow. "A man that has never killed anyone before suddenly snaps and decapitate what would've been a valuable source of information? Not happy with that, he goes on and starts to use bombs instead of his fists, killing even more people? And then there is this."

Eyes never leaving Vladimir, Natasha pushed a single photo closer to him: one of the blind Chinese suicide bombers.

For the first time since she started the interrogation, Natasha showed a semblance of emotion; nothing extreme, nothing anyone who didn't know her very well would ever notice, but it was there. Anger.

And pity.

She, more than most, knew what brainwashing looked like. Brainwashing and fanatism, that's the first thing Natasha saw when she interrogated the Chinese suicide bombers that Clark managed to stop. When she tried to interrogate them, she corrected herself.

No matter what Natasha said, what she threatened them with, what she promised them, the blind Chinese men said nothing back. They just kept singing, completely ignoring her and anything else. There was no fear, no rage, no regret… Nothing.

It reminded Natasha of the Red Room agents. Whatever had been done to them, it was bad. Not only mentally – one glance at their eyes was enough to tell her that their blindness had not occurred naturally, it had been inflicted. Like her, those men suffered until their entire beings were molded into something else, something horrible. Something completely subservient.

And she knew right away nothing she could do or say would make them confess anything. They would never betray their masters and Natasha had an inkling of just who those "masters" were.

Luckily, the Russian mobsters didn't have such loyalty. Especially towards the men that tried to blow them up.

"Your men already identified them for me," Natasha told him. "They are 'Madame Gao's delivery boys', right? The ones that move around the drugs, using your cabs to do it." She leaned forward. "Now, why do you think that these 'delivery boys' were carrying bombs and blowing themselves up right next to your warehouses? Did the Masked Man convince them to do that too, right after killing your brother?"

Natasha could almost see the fury leaving Vladimir's face, replaced by doubt. It was slow, discreet at first, but it was happening.

"Face it, Vladimir, the Masked Man did not kill Anatoly," Natasha pressed on. "Your associates did. And Anatoly was not the only one they killed."

Then she put another picture in front of him; a picture that bothered her as much as it bothered him. Sergei's severed head.

"The Old Man is dead?" Vladimir whispered, surprised at the sight of his dead mentor.

"He died last night," Natasha told him, her words giving nothing away of her own feelings on the matter. "After telling me about Fisk, Gao and the Hand. You do the math. Did the Masked Man kill him too?"

This time, Vladimir didn't say anything. He just kept looking at the pictures, at the images of the destruction of his organization. Blown up warehouses, fire, bodies everywhere, Sergei's head… Vladimir was a hothead, but he was far from being stupid. Despite his rage, he knew that the Masked Man couldn't have done all that.

"Fisk… He did this!" Vladimir snarled. "My brother went to negotiate a truce and came back without his head." His eyes were going from photo to photo, almost manically. "He fucking killed my brother."

Natasha waited for him to raise his eyes and when he did she said: "Help me get to them. To Fisk. Give me something and I'll make sure they all pay."

"You're gonna bring me Fisk's head?" Vladimir asked, challenging her. "Or you're too 'heroic' for that anymore, Black Widow?"

"I will make sure they all stay in jail for the rest of their lives, Fisk included."

"I don't want Fisk in jail, I want him dead!" Vladimir roared. "If you can't do it, then let me go and I'll do it myself. I'll settle for nothing less."

"That I cannot do–" Natasha refused.

"Then you have nothing to offer me," he spat. "And I have nothing to say."

Ignoring him, Natasha went on.

"–what I can do is arrest Wilson Fisk. And if by some bureaucratic mistake he ends up in the same prison you are going to, well, that's just bad luck."

Vladimir's eyes snapped back to her, almost as if he couldn't believe what he was listening. For a long minute, he didn't say anything, he just stared at her, pensive.

"You would do that?" he finally asked, his voice low. "Give me Fisk, just like that?"

"No… I would put him in the same jail. That's all."

He started to laugh, hysterically.

It was a bluff, of course. Dead men tell no tales and she needed Fisk to tell her his. So even if Vladimir gave her something that allowed her to arrest Fisk, Natasha would make sure he was kept safe until he could give everything he had on the Hand.

Vladimir was a smart man, he probably knew all that, but that was the only chance to get his revenge and the temptation was certainly alluring.

And who knows? Depending on Fisk's crimes, Natasha might be just as tempted to feed him to the sharks.

She probably wouldn't, not with a "Superman shaped angel" on her shoulder, whispering louder than the "Black Widow shaped Devil" on the other shoulder, but it wasn't like Vladimir knew that. To him, she was still the monster who killed countless people without regret, so what was Fisk's life worth to her anyway?

Natasha might not like it, but her reputation was useful in her line of work.

"Ha! Remove the problem without dirtying your hands," Vladimir finally said, once he stopped laughing. "Gotta say, from the stories I heard, the Black Widow wasn't afraid of a little bit of blood."

Natasha stared at him with cold eyes; her lips twisted in a scary smile.

"Oh, I'm not. Quite the opposite. But for both our sakes, I hope you don't get to see this side of me."

Natasha held her stare until she could almost listen his heart rate increasing, then she relaxed her gaze.

Like she already knew, her reputation was useful.

"Now, what do you have?"

There was another long silence, as if Vladimir was considering his choices. Both of them knew, however, that if he wanted a chance to avenge his brother, then he had only one choice: to cooperate.

It didn't take long for him to reach that inevitable conclusion.

"Leland Owlsley," Vladimir said, eventually.

Natasha raised an eyebrow.

"Who is Leland Owlsley?" she asked.

"He's the money guy," he summarized. "He's the one that keeps the money clean and hidden. All our money."

The money Clark had mentioned, Natasha remembered. The one Karen Page had stumbled upon while she was working for Union Allied, the company that had rebuilt most of Hell's Kitchen after the Battle of New York.

The mob's joint account, as Clark had put it.

"Go on."

"If someone has dirt on Fisk and the rest of them, it would be him," Vladimir said, serious. "The kind that can really hurt them."

"If he is that much of a liability, why keep him around at all? Especially now?"

"Leland is a spineless worm, and annoying to boot, but he knows his stuff," he reluctantly admitted. "With that fucking alien hacking every suspicious account and computer out there, we had to invent new ways to keep our business safe. Leland did that." Vladimir glanced at her. "I'm sure things wouldn't just crumble to dust without him, but getting rid of Leland – as nice as it would feel –, would set them back quite a lot. You want someone that can provide proof of their crimes, well, that's the money guy."

That made sense. Clark had certainly put a lot of pressure on crime everywhere. Adapt or die; that was true for criminal organizations as much as it was to anything else.

"And where can I find Leland?" Natasha asked.

He scoffed. "You work for a spy organization, can't you find his address?"

"If he is as important as you say, Fisk already moved him somewhere safe," Natasha retorted, calmly. "Especially after news of your demise proved to be greatly exaggerated. I want the safehouses."

"There are hundreds of them in New York alone! You think I know them all?" Vladimir barked.

"If you want me to keep my end of the deal, you better narrow it down and give me your best guess."

Natasha was certain that if Vladimir hadn't been cuffed, he would've tried to punch her. It was certainly good luck that he was – for him.

Eventually, he calmed down and started to think.

"There's a place he could've gone to," Vladimir said, slowly. "Not a safehouse, though."

"Where?"

"There's a guy, he works for Fisk. He makes suits."

She frowned. "Suits?"

"Not normal suits, obviously! Bulletproof suits. For protection."

Natasha held a sigh. "Bulletproof suits are quite common these days. Every remotely rich person has one or can acquire one just as easily."

"Not like these. These suits are the real deal. Rumor is they can stop anything. They're works of art."

"What does this have to do with Leland?" Natasha interrupted, impatient.

"Everything! Leland is a coward. When things started to heat up with Masked Man, Leland ordered a suit made. I know 'cause we've been keeping tabs on everyone. He ordered a suit, but until yesterday, he hadn't picked it up, not yet." He looked at her. "A guy like him? After everything that happened last night, you can bet your sweet Soviet ass that the first thing Leland will do is grab that fucking suit."

It wasn't a bad guess, but in the end it was a guess. But it was more than she had a minute ago. At the very least, it was the beginning of a trail they could follow.

"Give me the address."