Devil, King and Serpent part 1

The sight that greeted Clark when he entered their improvised headquarters — the "evidence room" in the Avengers Tower — reminded him of a beehive: full of agitated people completely focused on their tasks, moving between the evidence filled tables in some kind of organized chaos.

The fact that it was already late at night — a few hours after President Ellis and Fisk's press conference — didn't seem to bother anyone. Natasha and Clint had several computers in front of them, as they gathered information from SHIELD's operatives and their contacts, trying to find out everything they could about this new predicament.

Matt was "reading" Clark's cliff notes about the case at a furious pace, running his fingers over the words, his bare hands feeling the pen's ink. Any pretense of being blind was completely forgotten; not that there was anyone there unaware of his abilities, since Foggy and Karen were at their homes, purposely not called to this last-minute meeting.

Jessica, like Matt, was also checking the evidence, but unlike him — who was focused on the crimes committed — she was more interested in Fisk's connections. People Leland Owlsley confessed they had bribed, blackmailed and extorted to achieve their goals. Businessmen of all kinds — from small club owners to powerful CEOs —, people in the media — from reporters, bloggers and influencers to newspapers and TV channels owners — police officers, FBI agents and even judges and politicians.

Even Raven and Bruce were there, watching everything in silence from one of tables; Raven insisted on it, despite his and Bruce's worries about her health. She was sitting in a comfortable armchair Clark carried there, wearing a long black jacket she borrowed from Natasha over her hospital gown, the hood almost covering her entire face as she studied the situation.

The moment they noticed Clark entered the room, everyone turned to look at him, expectantly.

"So?" Jessica asked, impatient.

"The Ancient One guaranteed that the president is not being enthralled, possessed or influenced in any magical way. He also wasn't replaced by a shapeshifter or someone wearing illusion magic." Clark told them, briefly showing the cellphone he used to speak to her as if by reflex. "She went as far as to check on him through the Astral Dimension to make sure, but apparently she has quite the system of surveillance to prevent things like this from happening."

There was a moment of silence.

"There's a system to keep presidents from being possessed?" Clint asked, incredulous. "We actually need something like this?"

Clark couldn't blame him, he was pretty shocked as well.

"World leaders, high-ranked army officials, royalty, powerful politicians, anyone with the power to unleash war and cause damage to the Sanctums," Clark explained, since he asked the very same thing to the Ancient One. "People like those are targets to chaotic entities from other worlds and even powerful mages from this one. Apparently, it happened before. The Sorcerer Supreme told me that some of the craziest kings and emperors from ancient times were actually possessed or driven mad by magical entities. Back then, however, the damage they could do was limited. These days we have nuclear bombs to worry about. She thought it prudent to be safe."

Everyone kept staring at him in silence, possibly trying to come to terms with this new reality they were living, where demonic possession was something they had to look out for.

It bothered him a lot too.

"So, what do you have on your end?" Clark asked after a few seconds, clearing his throat to snap them out of it.

"President Ellis is fine," Clint answered, shaking his head for a moment. "He wasn't kidnapped or coerced to be there. Apparently, there were some sizeable anonymous donations made to New York's reconstruction since The Incident and even more after Black Zero Event. Some nonprofit organizations were created to help, some companies contributed… Anyway, a bunch of money exchanged hands to help rebuild the city, especially Hell's Kitchen, and the one responsible for the effort — until then kept in anonymity — came forth to speak with the president so he could do more."

"Fisk," Matt all but snarled.

Clint nodded. "Politicians, as usual, were more than happy to work with the 'silent billionaire'. Not only because he was willing to part with his money, but because the cause makes for excellent marketing and they were dying to attach their names — especially Ellis' — to Fisk's."

"The money…?" Clark started.

"Clean, I checked," Natasha said, before he could finish the question. "The government checked as well, of course. It probably comes from his legal businesses or it's very well laundered. Fisk would be an idiot to use dirty money for this and I don't think we can accuse him of that."

No, Wilson Fisk was apparently many things, but stupid was not one of them, Clark thought.

"How's Karen doing?" Clark asked after a few moments of silence, looking at Matt.

"As well as expected, after seeing the man who ruined her life being hailed as a hero while he made a speech by the President's side," Matt answered, his voice hard. "I left Foggy with her before coming here, but…"

He shrugged, not knowing how to finish. It wasn't needed, Clark knew what he meant, because he was also feeling it; not on the same degree as Karen, certainly, but they were all feeling it. The impotence, the sense of being cheated of a victory.

And the fear that there was nothing they could do.

"What does it matter, anyway?" Raven asked, her voice traveling the whole office.

They all turned to look at her. She gestured to the piles of documents Leland Owlsley had provided.

"You have all this, proof of crimes this Fisk committed. What does it matter if he was making a speech with the President or not? He is guilty all the same."

Clark gave her a tired smile; if only things were that simple.

In a perfect world, it would be. A world where the Justice System was fair, and money, influence and power didn't matter one bit when confronted against the evidence of a crime. A world where the law worked equally to all.

Unfortunately, they didn't live in such a world.

"It doesn't work like that, Raven," Clark gently explained, "even if it should."

How to begin to explain that to a person who lived in a society composed by pacifist monks? How would he explain that sometimes Justice wasn't fair, that sometimes greed and fear made people close their eyes to the truth and allow criminals to walk free?

Azarath probably never had to deal with that, being a small society of mages. If crime existed there, then it was most likely dealt with directly in ways their own society couldn't hope to imitate. Right and wrong, legal and illegal, it probably was all very easily defined and judged by their leaders, much like he imagined things were solved in Kamar-Taj.

Things on Earth were very different.

"What we have here," Clark started, choosing his words carefully so Raven could understand, "the money laundering, fraud, smuggling, all the evidence of all those crimes, can only be tied to the name 'Wilson Fisk' if we accept the testimony of Leland Owlsley and Vladimir Ranskahov. Two criminals who were already caught and already confessed to all of this, so they can lower their sentences."

Raven opened her mouth, but Clark was faster.

"I know, they're telling the truth. We all know that. But that's how the process usually works. We accuse Fisk, we present the evidence to what we're saying, and an investigation is opened. All the people mentioned in the evidence we have will be interrogated, they'll provide more evidence, we'll bring in more people involved who'll provide even more evidence, and so on so forth, until we finally have enough to get to the people on top."

A very abridged version of how an investigation worked, but he didn't want to complicate things too much.

"If we were after a common criminal, even a powerful one like a mob boss or the leader of a gang, for example, that would work. It would be more than enough," Clark continued. "But we're not. We are trying to arrest a very well connected criminal, a criminal who has 'friends' in high places, people who publicly attached their names to Fisk and won't want to face the political backlash if he were proven to be the criminal he is. People who don't care about what Fisk did, as long as things continue to be profitable for them."

He grabbed a piece of paper with information Leland had provided and another that Natasha and Clint had filled with recently acquired information.

"Influent people in the U.S government, and in several others too. Senators, congressmen, governors, mayors… People in positions of power who could hinder any and all investigation that could hurt them. Favors would be called in, messages would be sent, threats would be made, and the investigation would take years to go anywhere, right up until people 'forgot' all about it."

Clark walked to Jessica's side, glancing at Raven as he grabbed another file.

"And, of course, we can't forget about the others, the people Fisk bought, threatened and blackmailed into his service. High-ranking officers in several law enforcement agencies, judges — even some in the Supreme Court —, district attorneys, media moguls… Not only the higher-ups would be trying to stop the investigation at all costs, we would have people on Fisk's payroll working directly against us. Judges wouldn't be fair, agents and police officers Fisk bought would leak the investigation so evidence could be destroyed and people could disappear, they wouldn't have warrants to do anything… Meanwhile, the media would bombard everyone with stories about how Fisk is being persecuted because he was trying to help, turning public support to his side."

Clark placed the sheets of paper back on the table, sighing.

"Soon enough, it would be easier to everyone if it were proven that Leland Owlsley and Vladimir Ranskahov were the real criminals, and were only trying to frame Wilson Fisk, a true hero. And that would be the end. The investigation ends, Fisk walks free. And all this evidence is thrown in the garbage."

There was a long silence after Clark finished explaining things to Raven, the heavy atmosphere completely different from their carefree waffle-party; it felt like that had happened days ago, instead of a few hours.

"What if you go against these people first?" Raven finally asked. "The ones Fisk bought."

"We could," Natasha answered, before Clark could, "but we don't know all of them. These are just the ones Leland and Vladimir know about, there are certainly many others. And the Hand have people inside as well." She shrugged. "And it wouldn't help against the ones he didn't buy, like President Ellis. They would simply hinder things the 'legal' way, so the man they attached themselves to isn't revealed a criminal, damaging their reputation. Someone would just sit on top of the evidence for years and the investigation would eventually stop."

President Ellis, if what Clark heard about him was true, was actually a good man. The people around him, however, they would do what they could to preserve Ellis' image, even at the cost of this investigation.

"What we need," Natasha continued, and everybody looked at her again, "is evidence of something worse." She gestured towards the piles. "Proof of a serious crime committed by Fisk, something that can't be swept under the rug like these white-collar crimes we have here."

"How about decapitating a man with a car door?" Matt asked, his voice almost a growl, looking at her; Natasha was perfectly reflected on the red lenses of his glasses. "Would that be enough?"

"Do you have proof of that?" Natasha fired back. "A picture? Video? Or just the word of two criminals, neither of them present when the crime happened? We don't even have a body as evidence."

"Can't SHIELD do anything?" Jessica finally asked, fed up with the whole situation. "I mean, you guys already arrested two people involved. What's one more?"

"Back then? Sure, we would've arrested him just as we arrested Vladimir and Leland, if we knew where he was," Natasha answered. "Now? When he's surrounded by cameras and politicians? Fury would have my head. It would be a political nightmare that wouldn't take us anywhere."

"But you can bring him in for interrogation, can't you?" Clark asked, hopeful. "Use SHIELD to investigate, instead of the police. People we trust."

"I can bring him in," Natasha nodded, "but what good would that do? He would arrive with a team of lawyers around him, deny everything, and go home. And SHIELD wouldn't pick this case as it is, it isn't our jurisdiction. SHIELD deals with global threats, not financial crimes and a bit of harmless smuggling. They would pass it to the police or the FBI and we all know what would happen then."

"Isn't the Hand a global threat?" Matt asked, starting to pace like a caged tiger.

"Again, can you prove Fisk is involved with them? Can you prove that they even exist? Even I thought they were just a myth just a few days ago. What we have isn't enough, not for SHIELD to start an investigation."

"Because you guys always do things by the book, right?" Matt retorted.

The look Natasha sent his way made the room temperature drop.

"You want me to bring him in personally?" the Black Widow asked, slowly. "I could. I could throw him in a dark room and I could make him tell me everything he knows about his operations and the Hand. But if I do that, you can forget about the rest of his organization. There won't be a legal investigation, there won't arrests, there won't be paperwork of any kind. Wilson Fisk will disappear and no one will know. The end."

"We're not doing that," Clark said immediately and firmly, his voice cutting the heavy atmosphere.

The interruption of what was about to become a heated argument made everyone take a step back to cool down; it was easy to forget they were all on the same side when emotion were running high.

Clark sighed, tired, glancing at Natasha for a moment. Even if he didn't mind that Natasha kidnapped, tortured and killed a man — which he did, very much —, Fisk's death wouldn't solve anything. The information they would learn could or not be useful, but it certainly wouldn't be enough to destroy the Hand; they wouldn't share anything that could damage them to that degree with a non-member.

And Fisk's demise, as much as it would hinder their operations, wouldn't stop them.

Sooner rather than later, someone else would assume his position and continue things from where he left them. Maybe not as skillfully, but the organization would go on, perhaps even controlled directly by the Hand.

No, Fisk's death wouldn't solve anything. It would just stain Natasha's ledger with even more red.

Matt exhaled, finally stopping to pace; Clark could see his muscles shaking. He could relate with him. It was one thing to deal with common criminals, and quite another to deal with criminals masquerading as the good guys.

It said something about the state of their Justice System when all of them thought Raven was naïve to ask what difference it made if Fisk knew the President or not.

Fisk was a criminal, no doubt about that, but while he hid behind powerful people their hands were tied. Natasha was right, they needed something else, something no one could ignore, something that would make sure Fisk spent the rest of his days behind bars.

"So what do we do then?" Jessica asked, visibly pissed off. "Nothing?" She turned to him. "Can't you, I don't know, hold a press conference too, saying Fisk is a crook? Or talk to the president? You're Superman, people are bound to believe in what you say."

"And then what, Jessica?" Clark asked, not frustrated with her or the question, but with the situation itself and all it represented. "We'll present the evidence we have, he'll go to trial and the same thing will happen, his inside people will take care of it. Or do I demand that Fisk goes straight to jail, no trial? Because let me tell you, this would create a thousand more problems, each and every last one of them bigger than this."

And it would, Clark knew, because like Jessica the thought had occurred to him as well. Governments all over the world were afraid of him, of what he could do; even some people were afraid, it pained Clark to admit, but it was the truth. They all knew he had the power to go against any army or law enforcement agency, and that any authority they might have over him existed because he allowed it.

But more than his power, people feared the unknown.

So far, Clark was a known quantity. Scary as his powers might be, he was very careful to follow the rules, to act in accordance with the law. He didn't let them shackle him when it came to helping people — he made that very clear to everybody early on —, but he also didn't go around breaking the rules just because he could escape the consequences. He never abused his power.

That would all change if he demanded Fisk was arrested.

Open an investigation? Sure, they could do that. Present evidence and even go as far as to testify in court? He could do that too. But order the government to arrest him? Demand that the police took Fisk to jail no matter the verdict — because it was pretty clear that Fisk had enough influence to be ruled not guilty with the evidence they had — and be done with it? Or worse, simply skip any trial?

The moment he did that, he would become a dictator. He would be announcing to the world that he couldn't care less about their rules and their laws, and that they should obey him; because if they didn't, there would be consequences.

It didn't matter if Fisk was guilty or not. It wouldn't matter if Superman did this just this once, and followed every rule for the rest of his life later on. Once it became clear that Superman could force any government on Earth to do what he wanted, once the illusion that they could go against him if there was need was shattered, there would be no way back.

Governments would be terrified of what he could do next; an arms race would probably follow. People would panic. His enemies — those he knew about and those he didn't — would use this to force a confrontation, to pitch the world against him, using every resource they had; the media, the military, maybe even SHIELD and the Avengers themselves…

And sooner or later, Clark would be forced to fight the very people he wanted to protect.

Could this be an extreme over-exaggerated scenario, the worst of the worst of a combination of terrible possibilities, fruit of Clark's deeply ingrained fears? Maybe. Maybe he was wrong and nothing at all would happen. Or maybe it wouldn't be something quite so dramatic, at least not a first; simply a silent kickstart that could lead eventually to something like that.

Whatever it was, Clark wasn't willing to risk it, not when the result could be that disastrous. And not while they had so many other things to try first. The evidence of what Fisk truly was existed, they just had to find it.

He sighed after a few minutes of silence, shaking his head. "Jessica, I—"

"I get it," Jessica interrupted. She looked strangely regretful, as if the magnitude of what she asked for him to do finally crossed her mind. Everybody there seemed to understand why he was so reluctant, if their silence and their thoughtful expressions meant anything. "Stupid thing to ask."

Clark nodded, thankful.

"We continue the investigation," Natasha declared after a moment, sparing him of having to say anything. She looked at Matt again. "You're the lawyer. Tell me honestly: if we use the evidence we have now, can we arrest Fisk? If you tell me there's a good chance, I'll do what I can on my side to get things going to the best of my ability."

Matt leaned over the table, frowning as he considered all the variables. A full minute went by and he was still quiet, everyone staring at him, waiting. He inhaled deeply.

"Do you know why Al Capone was arrested?" he asked them, suddenly.

There was a moment of stunned silence. Everyone seemed confused, but no one more than Raven, who probably had never heard the name before.

"He was a famous mobster boss," Clark explained quickly to Raven, turning back to Matt. "Umm, tax evasion?"

Clark was far from being an expert in the history of organized crime, but Al Capone, like he told Raven, was a famous gangster during the Prohibition era, to the point documentaries and movies had been made about him; he just didn't know exactly why Matt had brought it up.

Matt looked at him and Clark saw himself on his glasses.

"Al Capone was arrested because everyone wantedhim arrested," Matt corrected him. "He trusted so much in the power of his organization, his connections and in his popularity with the people, that he pretty much operated openly, with such disregard for secrecy that he made a mockery of the law enforcement and the government. So much that he dared to plan the murder of seven rival gang members in broad daylight, on Saint Valentine's Day. That was the last straw. Al Capone became Public Enemy nº1 and they used every resource they had to find something, anything, to arrest him. Tax evasion was just the excuse they needed."

He looked around, giving time for everyone to absorb what he was trying to say.

"And after all that, he was sentenced to 11 years. In less than 8, he was out."

It would be funny if it wasn't tragic. A man responsible for who knows how many murders — either by his own hand or ordered by him —, and he ended up arrested because he didn't pay taxes. They did what they could to arrest Al Capone and Clark commended the people who made that happen, but it was ridiculous how flawed the system was to even allow something like that.

What was even more ridiculous, however, was the time of his sentence. 11 years and he was out in 8. How could anyone even call that justice?

"Capone didn't have a tenth of the resources Fisk has," Matt announced, drawing their attention back to him again. "By the end, he also didn't have public support or people infiltrated in the law enforcement agencies, and the full might of the law was only able to sentence him to 11 years." Matt frowned. "I fear, that even if we succeed with the evidence we have — which I have my doubts we will —, Fisk won't even see the inside of a prison. And even that might be years from now."

Everybody was already expecting that answer, but Matt's statement took the last bit of hope they still had.

"Agent Romanoff is right," Matt admitted, in what Clark believed to be an apology for his previous behavior. "It's useless to move against him with this. We need more evidence, better evidence."

"Oh, we just need to record him murdering someone, is that it?" Jessica asked, sarcastically. "A guy even SHIELD didn't know existed not too long ago?"

"Either that," Clint agreed, ignoring her sarcasm, "or find something that can force SHIELD to take the case."

"Such as?" Bruce asked, speaking for the first time. "I'm just a bit curious about the threat level needed to draw SHIELD's attention. From 'mugger level' to 'Hulk level', where on the threat scale would Fisk have to be?"

"We have different teams for different assignments, but anything that's a bit much for normal law enforcement to deal with falls into our jurisdiction," Clint answered, shrugging. "Enhanced individuals, aliens, people in possession of advanced tech, powerful organizations, anything that starts as or can eventually become a global threat if not dealt with. Or someone who is aiding a person or an organization who checks all the boxes I mentioned. Which we know Fisk is, but can't prove it yet." Clint shrugged again. "Everything else, we pass it to other agencies. SHIELD doesn't have the manpower to police the whole world, we have to focus on the big threats, because if we're stretched too thin, well, bad things happen and no one else can do anything about it."

Natasha had told him the same thing not too long ago. It was easy to think of SHIELD as this super powerful spy organization that knew everything, but the world was a big place. Much like Superman, SHIELD had to share the burden and that was why they needed proof, so SHIELD could officially act against Fisk, at least publicly.

Otherwise, they would have dozens of politicians doing everything they could to stop this "witch hunt" and Fury would be eventually ordered to pass the investigation to another agency, an agency that was probably filled with Fisk's people.

Until then, Natasha and Clint were all they had from SHIELD.

"The people at the docks?" Matt asked, suddenly. "The ones transporting Raven and that undead monstrosity. They fall into that category."

"They do," Natasha confirmed. "And SHIELD was the first on the scene. But those men were Yakuza and the few that talked never even heard about Fisk, I asked. Nor did the security guards who were conveniently absent. As far as we can prove, what happened was all Yakuza and nothing we have can be connected to Fisk in any way." Like Clint, Natasha shrugged. "Unless we have something else to add, which we don't, the case is already closed."

She shuffled some papers.

"The workshop you three found," Natasha continued, gesturing towards Clark, Matt and Jessica, "the one where Mr. Melvin Potter fashioned suits made out of Chitauri fabric, was also a possibility. SHIELD does not like to leave alien tech lying around, after all. But there isn't anything there that links Fisk to it." She tilted her head. "I could get a warrant to check his suits, but even if we manage to get one before Fisk's gets rid of them — if he already didn't —, unless we can prove he was involved in their creation or knew what they were made of in the first place, it won't go anywhere. We'll probably end up having to arrest Mr. Potter."

There was a long silence.

"So we have jack shit, is that it?" Jessica piped up. "Great."

Clark sighed, feeling as frustrated as her. But differently from Jessica, Clark could see things from another perspective.

"We have a lot," he corrected her, "and we are putting pressure on Fisk and the Hand. What he did wasn't a coincidence, it wasn't part of his plan, we forced him out of the shadows. This whole thing with President Ellis is just one more layer of protection, but it's the last one he has. We took down the Russians, we took down his accountant, we seized several of his bank accounts and we have plenty of information about his organization. Maybe we can't build an air-tight case yet, not like we thought, but we will. We weren't beaten, this is just a setback. We just have to keep working. And remember: the priority right now isn't Fisk, it's the dragon, so we have time."

Even Clark didn't know if he believed in every word he said, but the important thing was that his little speech worked: instead of the tired and defeated expressions from before, the faces looking back at him were full of energy. He smiled.

"So let's call it a day," he continued, "go home, sleep. Tomorrow we'll find a way to bring this guy down."

They all agreed and got up.

"Hey, Stevie Wonder," Jessica called before Matt could leave. "There's word on the street that cops were ordered to shoot a certain masked individual on sight. So if you're going to run around beating people up, you might want to wear something different than a t-shirt and pantyhose on your head."

He stopped, then turned.

"It's not pantyhose," Matt said, as if he couldn't believe he would ever have to say something like this.

"Well, I bet it stop bullets just like it."

Matt sighed. "You're not wrong there. Thanks for the warning."

Clark watched they bicker until the elevator closed, then went to pick up Raven, otherwise Dr. Cho would have his head. Before she could get up, he lifted both Raven and the armchair, smiling at the deadpan look she sent him.

"The elevator is busy, but I know a faster way to the infirmary," Clark said, holding the armchair with one hand as he opened the huge window with the other.

To her credit, Raven didn't even flinch when he jumped out; well, it wasn't like she had never defied gravity before, Clark reasoned, quickly wishing a good night to Natasha, Clint and Bruce before flying up.

Despite Clark's attempts to raise morale, to keep them in the fight, Matt felt tired. It had nothing to do with his extracurricular activities, nothing to do with the punches he took, nothing to do with anything physical.

He felt exhausted to his very soul.

Three days had passed since Fisk made his speech by the President's side. Three days that he had to see Karen feeling more and more tense, burying herself in work to the point where she barely slept anymore. Three days that they found absolutely nothing that could be used to arrest Fisk, not when he had so many people willing to protect him and so many people in his pockets. Three days that they hadn't made any progress whatsoever.

It was like chasing a mirage. No matter how much effort they put into it, no matter how long they tried, they would never get to it. Fisk was a ghost. Almost no one — and Matt had forced many criminals to talk — knew about him. Some that did where so damn scared that they would be willing to take what they knew to their graves; Matt had seen a psychopathic killer-for-hire plunge his head through an iron bar to escape Fisk's retribution for giving out his name. And the few that did know Fisk had nothing else to give them, no information that could be used.

They had reached a dead-end and Matt honestly didn't know how to advance.

Inhaling deeply, Matt took off his glasses and scratched his eyes for a moment. The midday sun felt hot against his skin, as he sat on a bench in front of the church, taking a break to think. Foggy and Karen were still in the Avengers Tower, working like crazy, trying to build a case with what they had; useless for now, they all knew that, but at least it kept Karen busy, so she wouldn't try to investigate things by herself again.

Karen, whose life was destroyed by Fisk… One of many. How many others had Fisk ruined, directly or indirectly? How many people had been killed, hurt, blackmailed into committing despicable acts, kidnapped… How many had lost everything and everyone because of Fisk and his associates? There was one word that could describe Wilson Fisk: evil. That was what he was, a blight in this city. A corruptive force that tainted everything in his path.

Like the Devil.

As any good catholic, Matt had grown up with a bible always close by. And while he didn't believe in every single word of the holy book — at least not literally —, the bible offered insight into many struggles of life. Its stories, factual or not, taught him many things. But he had honestly never considered he would one day ponder about Satan's existence in their world.

How could he not, though? After finding out that Raven was the daughter of a demonic entity made of pure evil? After finding out that there were beings out there so powerful that could swallow their entire universe in a second? Superman and Thor were incredibly powerful, gods among men, but they were there, they could be touched, they made mistakes, they had limits; the entities Raven spoke of, entities like her father, were so beyond them that they could barely be understood.

Suddenly, some of the stories in the bible weren't so unbelievable anymore. And that actually scared him.

Matt was so distracted that he only noticed a man was approaching when he was already sitting by his side on the bench; it took him a second to recognize the old priest, but he waited for him to speak first.

"You look awful, Matthew," Father Lantom said, as direct as always. "Did you take a page from Battlin' Jack Murdock's book on dodging? Because your father usually didn't, at least in the matches I watched."

He couldn't help but to chuckle; no, Battlin' Jack Murdock's whole strategy consisted in being hit until his opponent got tired. Of course, Matt could never admit that was his case, not only because he did try to dodge — it was just hard to do it when fighting several people at once —, but because, as a blind man, Matt shouldn't be getting in fights at all.

"I fell," Matt simply said.

"Hmm," was the priest's response.

Matt's face was no longer black and blue as it was just after his fight against Nobu and Stick, and the marks no longer showed signs of an obvious fight, but Father Lantom still seemed to find something very interesting about them. He wasn't worried about that, though. Even if someone actually identified those bruises as the marks of a fight, the last thing they would think is that Matt was a vigilante beating people up all over the city. Most likely they would think he was mugged or, at worse, being abused by someone.

Father Lantom didn't get into that, though.

"It's been a while since I saw you," he said. "Didn't think you were coming back to take confessions anymore."

"It's not why I'm here, Father."

"Good, because I'm on a break right now," Father Lantom retorted, immediately. "The chamber of commerce donated one of those fancy expresso machines, for meetings and stuff. I know we are supposed to resist temptations and all that, but Matthew, that latte…"

Matt couldn't help but to smile, even if briefly.

"You sure you're not interested?" Father Lantom asked. "You're not going to regret it."

He didn't answer for a few seconds, simply staring at nothing with his blind eyes.

"Why not?" Matt finally said.

It took them a few minutes to go to the church's mess room and a couple more to Father Lantom prepare the famous latte; to his credit, it did smell wonderful. The place was empty, and the only voices Matt could hear came from far away.

"Sugar?" he asked.

"No," Matt muttered. Father Lantom seemed to be putting enough sugar in his latte for both of them.

"So… What's on your mind, Matthew?" the priest finally asked. "Seal of confession still applies, even over lattes, if that's what you're worried about."

It wasn't, not exactly. What Matt was worried about was how to put what he was feeling into words, without sounding crazy. He pondered for a few seconds, then turned to Father Lantom.

"Do you believe in the Devil, Father?"

There was a moment of silence.

"You mean, as a concept?" Father Lantom finally asked.

"No," Matt clarified. "Do you believe he exists? In this world, among us."

Father Lantom took a sip of his latte.

"Do you want the short answer or the long one?" he sighed.

"Just the truth."

The priest considered his words for a moment.

"When I was in seminary," he started, slowly, "I was more studious than pious, more… Skeptical than most of my peers. I had this notion — which I was more than willing to speak about, at length, to whoever I could corner — that the Devil was inconsequential. Minor figure in the grand scheme."

Matt gave him a tiny smile.

"Not very catholic of you."

"Yeah," Father Lantom agreed. "In my defense, in the scriptures, the Hebrew word 'Satan' actually means 'adversary'. And it's applied to any antagonist. Angels and humans, serpents and kings. Medieval theologians reinterpreted those passages to be about a single, monstrous enemy. And in my youthful zeal, I was certain I knew why: propaganda. Played up to drive people into the Church."

"So you don't believe he exists," Matt concluded.

The priest fixed a powerful glare on him.

"Am I done talking?"

"Sorry," Matt apologized, smiling briefly at the gruff scolding.

"Years later," Father Lantom continued, as if he hadn't been interrupted at all, "I was in Rwanda, trying to help local churches provide aid and sanctuary to refugees. I'd became close with the village elder, Gahiji. He and his family had the respect of everybody, Hutu and Tutsi alike. He'd helped them all, through famines, disease…" He took a sip of his latte, but Matt had the impression he didn't even taste it. "The militia liked to force Hutu villagers to murder their neighbors, with machetes, but no one would raise a hand against Gahiji. 'How could we kill such a holy man?', they said."

Father Lantom played with his sleeve for a moment.

"So the militia commander sent soldiers with orders to cut his head off, in front of the entire village." He shrugged. "Gahiji didn't try to put up a fight, just asked for the chance to say goodbye to his family. By the time he was done, even the soldiers didn't wanna kill him. So they went to their commander and asked permission to shoot him, to at least give him a quick death."

He looked at Matt.

"The commander wanted to meet this man, who had won the respect of so many," Father Lantom told him, and Matt felt his blood get cold for some reason. "He went to Gahiji, talked to him in his hut, for many hours."

Father Lantom took a deep breath.

"Then he dragged him out in front of his village and hacked him to pieces, along with his entire family."

Matt closed his eyes for a moment, actually feeling Father Lantom's grief as clearly as he heard his voice.

"In that man that took Gahiji's life, I saw the Devil," Father Lantom finally said. "Satan, Tempter, Adversary… Call it whatever you want, it doesn't matter." He looked at Matt, tired. "The answer is 'yes', Matthew, I believe Evil walks among us, taking many forms."

He obviously didn't believe for a second that Wilson Fisk was literally the Devil — if the entity itself how it was described in the Bible even existed —, nor did he believe the man in Father Lantom's story was him as well.

But guided by a Higher Evil, corrupted, pushed past the limits of the human capacity for cruelty?

Given what he now knew, that he could believe.

Matt knew better than most that people didn't need help to commit atrocities, but that didn't mean there wasn't something bigger, something more pulling the strings. The Hand was allied to one such being, after all, even if it didn't call itself "Devil".

And what about Fisk? Was he even a person anymore? Or a monster wearing the face of a man? A puppet dancing for the amusement of the "Adversaries"?

Whatever he was, knowingly or not, Wilson Fisk was serving Evil, just like the man in Father Lantom's story.

"What if you could've stopped him," Matt caught himself asking before he could stop, "from ever hurting anyone again?"

Father Lantom met his eyes, almost as if he forgot Matt couldn't see him.

"Stopped him how?" he finally asked.

Any way he could, Matt answered inside his own mind, feeling his heart beating fast. Wilson Fisk was the one allowing the Hand into their city, the one who made all those crimes possible, the one responsible for all that Evil. The Hand was worse, he had no doubt, but Fisk… Fisk was at the same time their greatest asset and the chink in their armor. Without him, they couldn't hold the city, not immediately anyway, not with the degree of absolute control Fisk had.

But how could he stop a man protected by the very system meant to put him away? What justice could they ever get if cops, judges and politicians were in Fisk's pockets?

Matt didn't like to even think about it — it made him feel too much like Stick —, but so far he knew of only one way to effectively stop Fisk.

Clark fiercely disagreed with the idea and even Black Widow didn't see many tactical advantages in killing Fisk, and from a certain point of view they were both right. Fisk's death wouldn't bring down the Hand or even destroy his own organization. It wouldn't be a complete victory.

But both of them had something few in this city had: the ability to live without any fear from ever being victims of Wilson Fisk and his associates. The privilege of waiting safely until they could act following the law.

Both of them lived in completely different worlds, even when sharing the same space. One was a bulletproof superpowered alien, and another was a top agent of SHIELD. They were so removed from any consequences that they might as well be on another planet. But the normal people, people like Karen and Foggy, they weren't. They were there, in the city, and they were easy prey to people like Fisk every day.

Maybe killing Fisk wouldn't solve everything, but it would give the Hand pause, throw a wrench in their plans, cause enough problems and confusion to allow them to act. And maybe, enough problems and confusion to allow them to win.

Otherwise… Were they supposed to wait until something horrible happened? To wait until the entire justice system was cleansed from all corruption so he could protect his friends? Wait for permission to save their lives?

Matt honestly had no answer and the questions were beginning to eat him alive.

"Thanks for the latte, Father," Matt said, getting up.

"If you don't mind, Matthew, there's one more thing I'd like to add," Father Lantom said; Matt stopped, but didn't turn back. "I believe the Devil walks among us… But I also believe there are other forces at work in this world. If there is Evil, then it stands to reason that there is also Good."

He exhaled.

"Just something to keep in mind."

For a moment, no more than a few seconds, Matt almost considered going back to his seat, ask for another latte, talk about something else. But then his enhanced hearing picked a radio broadcast nearby.

"…Wilson Fisk will be attending the art exhibition at Scene Contempo Gallery tonight, to support his girlfriend Vanessa Marianna. And yes, the profits of any and all sales will be reverted to the reconstruction of our beloved city…"

Basic tenet of both law and war: know your enemy. He had questions, and philosophical debates would only take him so far.

Maybe it was time Matt invested in some art.

Raven hardly moved her eyes from the TV when Clark entered her room, just enough to acknowledge his presence, apparently too entertained by whatever was on. Curious by the very familiar sounds, he closed the door, and walked to the chair beside her bed, setting the cooler he was carrying down; not such an out of place view, since he was wearing normal clothes and not his Kryptonian skinsuit, but the presence of the cooler seemed to draw her attention.

She extended her hand, without moving her eyes from the TV.

"What do you have this time?" Raven asked.

Clark didn't answer immediately, though, finally confirming his suspicions about what interested Raven so much on the TV: Luke Skywalker facing Darth Vader, green and red lightsabers clashing as they fought in the second Death Star.

He didn't see that one coming.

"The Return of the Jedi?" Clark exclaimed.

"Hmm," was Raven answer. He waited a moment. "I'm rewatching it by myself. Bruce recommended it, but he gets too enthusiastic and starts to talk during every scene." No longer 'Dr. Banner', Clark realized with a smile; she was making friends. "He was quite excited when I told him I didn't know what Star Wars was for some reason."

"The chance of introducing Star Wars to someone who never heard of it? I would be too!"

Clark was actually kicking himself for not coming up with the idea before Bruce.

"Yes, he said that," Raven agreed in a monotonous tone. "He also said that I might 'see myself' in one of the characters." She tilted her head. "He was not wrong."

Luke Skywalker's journey as he learned to wield the Force to save the galaxy probably would be something Raven would empathize with, Clark thought. A powerful "psychic" ability that required constant balance to not be tainted and corrupted by the Dark Side… Yeah, Bruce wasn't wrong at all.

"Darth Vader's story really is relatable," Raven finished her thought, and Clark did a double take.

"Oh…"

A hero that was corrupted to the Dark Side, destroyed everything he loved, only to be redeemed by his son and brought back to the Light. Yeah, as disturbing as that sounded, that made a lot more sense.

"And I think he is cool," Raven admitted after a moment.

Well, she was not wrong, Clark conceded.

Before he could make any more questions, Raven paused the movie — with a wave of her hand instead of the remote — and turned to him.

"So, what do you have this time?" Raven asked again, her going from him to the cooler.

Clark smiled at her tone, something he could only classify as "bored eagerness", even if it didn't make any real sense. He picked it up and opened the cooler, the sweet smell filling the room.

"I think you'll like this one: Pastéis de Belém," Clark said in perfect Portuguese, opening the prism-shaped box. "Directly from Lisbon."

The Kryptonian mind-reading device he had, the same one Faora had used to pick up the location of his ship from Natasha's mind during his invasion, was a great way to quickly learn all kinds of different languages; it taught him Kryptonian in a few hours, a language he hadn't heard spoken since he was a baby, so why couldn't he use it to learn human languages, like Zod did?

"What were you doing in Portugal?" Raven asked, accepting the small custard tart with fascination.

"I was just passing by, there was a small fire close to Lisbon, nothing serious. But I couldn't leave without some of these," he said, biting the creamy pastry with gusto.

Raven's expression was impassive as always, but she closed her eyes for a moment when she tried it; for her, it was pretty much the same as crying tears of joy. Clark felt much the same the first time he had one; the sweet cream mixed with the crispy crust made a mouthwatering combination.

"Good, huh?" She nodded. "Better than waffles?"

"I like waffles more than life itself," Raven deadpanned. "But this comes close."

Clark laughed. "I feel the same about Ma's apple pie. Which, by the way…"

She watched with wide eyes as he picked another box from the cooler, this one containing a still hot apple pie, directly from the Kent Farm.

"I won't be able to go through the door if you keep bringing these every day," Raven complained, while at the same time accepting a large piece.

"No matter, you can always open a portal," Clark joked. "Just make sure it's wide enough."

Raven glared at him for a moment, which only made him laugh harder.

With a wave of her hand, Raven resumed the movie and both of them ate in silence as they watched. By that point, Raven was pretty much healed already, but since there was no need, she chose not to move to another room; as soon as Clark had the time — and was certain the Hand wouldn't pose much of a threat to her — he promised to take Raven to Kamar-Taj, so the arrangement was temporary.

He would be lying if he said he wouldn't miss her, though.

The movie was already at the end when Clark arrived and as soon as the credits appeared, Raven waved her hand once again, turning the TV off; she looked at him.

"You are worried," she said, simply.

It was useless to lie to an empath about feelings, so Clark didn't even try.

"A little bit, yeah."

"You still haven't found anything to make an arrest?" Raven guessed.

"Nope. Nothing about the dragon as well." He tilted his head. "I'm more worried about the second. We're on a time limit and I don't know where else to look."

Both the Ancient One and Raven had stated it would take a few days for the Lazarus Pit's creation, and a bit more so the Pit could completely restore the Dragon to life. He'd been happy to hear that then, but time was running out and they still didn't have any clue about their location.

"The place is most likely cloaked with some kind of magic," Raven theorized.

"That's my guess," Clark agreed. "Chi does weird things to my senses. I couldn't see through the door of the dragon tomb and I couldn't even hear the arrow shot at you." He sighed. "I hate magic. It's like having an Achilles heel, knowing about it, but being unable to do anything to fix it."

Raven rolled her eyes.

"As far as I know, there isn't an inherent weakness to magic present in Kryptonian physiology. In fact, given that the power of any spell is highly dependent on the caster, you have a better chance at fighting it than most. It would take some seriously powerful magic to even affect you — I'm talking about deadly curses or high layered enchantments, no mere elemental conjuring, Eldritch constructs or simply power bursts —, and given how quick and tough you are, it's more likely the fight would be over before it even began."

She shrugged.

"The Mystic Arts are just that powerful, against anyone. It's the sword and the shield Agamotto taught us to craft so we could protect ourselves from beings such as my father. And since time immemorial, the Vishanti — a trinity of higher entities composed by Agamotto, Oshtur and Hoggoth — have traveled the Multiverse teaching the Mystic Arts to the denizens of countless universes, raising barriers to keep threats out and starting lineages of Sorcerers Supreme so they could guard their worlds."

Raven stared in his eyes.

"So, no, Clark, you are not weak against magic. Magic is simply overpowered to the extreme. And it's a good thing it is, because otherwise we would have no form of defense against the likes of Trigon."

Well, when put it like that, Clark had no reason to disagree. At the end of the day, only magic could counter magic.

As soon as that thought crossed his mind, he remembered something the Ancient One said to him; a suggestion that Raven might know more than even she realized about the location of Ao Shun's remains.

Maybe she didn't know where the bones were being kept, but if they truly were concealed with magic — or Chi, whatever the difference was —, then maybe they could use magic to trace it.

"Raven, is there a way to use magic to track down the dragon's remains?" Clark asked, suddenly. "Some kind of, I don't know, divination or long-distance Legilimency?"

She frowned. "I don't know what 'Legilimency' is, but…"

For a long minute, Raven didn't answer, too deep in thought; Clark took it as good news.

"There are ways to see beyond, to search for things and people without having to actually go out in the world," Raven started, slowly, "but the Hand's members are no amateurs. They are far older than me, they have knowledge granted to them by the Dragons of K'un-Lun, and they have been hiding even from the Masters of Kamar-Taj all this time. If even they cannot do anything, then…"

Clark felt his previous excitement die out.

"Unless… Unless they are the ones who can't do anything," Raven finished her thought, as if something very important occurred her. "But I could."

She turned to look at a very confused Clark.

"Have you ever heard about Merlin's 'Treatise on the Laws of Astral Projection'?"

He blinked. "I must've skipped that one."

"The Astral Plane, as you probably know, is a dimension that coexists with our world. Much like the Mirror Dimension, it's an inherent part of our universe, the same way the different sides of a coin are still a part of the coin. In that dimension, our spirit exists outside the body." She raised a finger. "For those who know how, it is possible to use the Astral Dimension to travel without moving a single inch in the material world. The physical limitations we have here do not exist there, so we can go from one side of a galaxy to the other as fast as we can think. We can survive in the vacuum of space or underwater, we can pass through solid barriers and even see the stars from close distance without fear of being harmed. It is how I used to visit this world, without ever leaving Azarath."

Raven took a moment to reorganize her thoughts.

"But there is one detail that cannot be overlooked, a very important one: if you don't wish to lose yourself forever in the Astral Plane, then you need an anchor in the real world. Something connected to your spirit, something that could guide you back." She looked at Clark. "Usually, that anchor is your own body."

It made sense, Clark thought; even knowing absolutely nothing about magic, he could understand the principles. He just didn't understand exactly where Raven was going with this.

Was she planning to start a search through the Astral Plane?

"There is a reason for this, why the anchor we use to find our way back is generally our own body," Raven continued. "Much like the real world and the Astral Plane are two sides of the same coin, body and spirit are always connected. Two halves of a whole. So even if the spirit is on the other side of the universe, it can always find its way back to the body. It will always know where it is, because there is a connection between them that will only cease to exist in death."

"Alright, I understand," Clark said, slowly, getting the concept.

Raven, against all odds, smiled.

"Tell me, Clark, what exactly is the Hand planning to use to revive the dragon?"

"Blood," he said immediately. Then widened his eyes. "Your blood."

"Which still is, even after being removed, a part of me," Raven went on, still grinning. "And with a little bit of luck, maybe I can use the blood the Hand drained from me as a secondary anchor, to find my way out of the Astral Dimension. Not the way back to my body, but the way towards the Lazarus Pit being used to bring the dragon back to life."

Clark was so excited in finally having a lead that he didn't even hesitate: he grabbed Raven and kissed the top of her head.

Her pale cheeks blushed so red that Clark thought she would burst into flames for a second.

"What do you need?" he asked.

Raven, cheeks still burning hot, took a deep breath.

"Pen and paper to make some calculations… And a lab strong enough to withstand a few unintentional and, slightly powerful, explosions."

The Avengers Tower, formerly known as Stark Tower, was probably the best place Raven could have chosen for something like this. If Clark knew Tony, and he did, the Tower probably had several "explosion-proof" places for testing his new suits.

It was time to work.