Blackout | Matt Murdock

chapter twenty-four | the world doesn't reward noncompliance

Michaela's alone when she gets the call.

She wouldn't be if it came at literally any other moment, but she's out for a run when she hears it, trying in vain to burn off the excess energy that's accumulated with her keeping a tight leash on her powers these last few weeks. Things have circled around to the early days of her vigilantism, when she electrocuted every other appliance she touched and static-shocked herself whenever she grabbed for the pole on the subway, but it's from not having an outlet instead of plain old ignorance these days. Matt helps where he can, reminding her to let off a little steam every now and then, which – loosely translated – means she's currently sweating sparks and should like, go and charge her laptop or something.

Can't say she's a fan of how her life is going, but it's better than it could be. Most likely, anyway. Curbing her fatalistic thoughts means she hasn't been considering worst-case-scenarios as much, and while that's great and all for her mental health, it means she doesn't have anything truly terrible to compare her current misery to and feel all warm and fuzzy about it.

But, the call.

All Star again, and she just rolls her eyes a little as she jogs to a stop at the crosswalk, fishing the phone from her zip-up pocket and bringing it to her ear.

"Peter," she starts, eyeing the light impatiently. She hasn't jay-walked in a while, irrationally worried it'll get the attention of the fucking feds she and Matt have clocked in the neighborhood, but she's tempted to go for it now. "What time even is it? Shouldn't you be diligently committing the entire periodic table to memory, or whatever you little geniuses do at your smart kid school?"

Or, well, that's what she's planning to say. What she gets out is about two-thirds of Peter's name before she's interrupted by his breathless voice:
"I need backup!"

She tenses instantly, adrenaline flooding her system just as quickly – just like old times.

"What the hell?" she says, but she's already reaching for the bandana she's tied her back with, resituating it so that it works as a semi-decent replacement for her usual mask. The goggle's are out, obviously, she's too far from her apartment to make a run for them, and if that were an option she wouldn't need the stupid bandana either. The little crosswalk guy pops up, signaling it's alright for her to keep walking, but she stays rooted to the spot. "Peter, where are you? And – hell, yes, tell me that, but also, what are you doing?"

Michaela darts a glance around her, only just second-guessing her decision to suit-up (as much as tugging a bandana over her face counts in that regard) in the middle of the city, at like – seven-thirty at night. Dusk set in maybe half an hour ago and the sidewalk wasn't crowded to begin with when she ran out of her apartment, but she breathes a quiet sigh of relief when she sees there's no one around to question her. No one besides the guy in the too-big coat conked out against the side of a building a little ways down the street. Michaela hesitates – Peter needs backup and he still hasn't answered, fucking hell – then gives into her first instinct and hurries over, dropping whatever change she has (six crumpled ones and two dimes) into his lap. He stirs a little at the movement, but she doesn't sick around, whispering fiercely into her phone for Peter to answer her, goddammit!

"Dudes with guns!" Peter gasps, barely heard over the sound of his heavy footsteps – he's running? Why is he running, Peter slings his way around the city, he doesn't touch down all that often—"Shot out my web-shooters!"

Ah. Fuck.

That answers that question, and concisely, too. How nice.

"Where are you?" Michaela repeats, her heart in her throat.