"Not as much as you'd think." Really, Foggy, look at what he's been running around in, the last few months. If he'd known he was going to take on the Russian mob, the Triads, and the Yakuza, under Fisk's thumb or otherwise, he might have looked for something a little more durable than a long-sleeved shirt, some tactical pants and a couple of wooden dowels. "Not to start, anyway. It's all kind of ... evolved, as things have gotten more serious."

Going from a strap of cloth wrapped over his eyes to a full head cover to the cowl. Going from the aforementioned wooden dowels to polycarbonate batons. The next step, he thinks, might be to swallow his pride and ask Stark if he can make him a real suit -- and for more than just Foggy's peace of mind. He really doesn't want a repeat of what happened last night any time soon.

"I really wasn't planning on ... "

Going after anything bigger than drunks that liked to beat their wives and purse snatchers is where he's headed with that. He stops if only because, as much as he wasn't expecting all of this, in hindsight, it seems sort of inevitable. Like he told Foggy, last night, he couldn't in good conscience let what's been happening around the Kitchen keep happening. Eventually, whether he liked it or not, he would have ended up on the Russians, on Fisk, all the same. He wonders if that's proof of God's supposed plan for everyone.