aworldonfire | rp | all the hurt that brought me here

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rp | all the hurt that brought me here

It's a miracle, he thinks, that he got away from Nobu, from Fisk. It's a miracle that he made it back to his apartment, as beaten as he is. It's a miracle, but singing the praises of God doesn't follow him much past the door, not because he doesn't want to but because, while he's still alive, still fighting, he's rapidly devolving into hysterical thought thanks to the blood loss, and what he's stricken by, standing in the doorway of the rooftop access, is that he remembers what red looks like, would swear he could see it.

It's in the taste of his own blood in his mouth, after all, the wash of pain in his stomach and chest that rushes over him whenever he draws breath, the smell of metal (not his own, not copper, so much blood, oh, God), clinging to his wounds, where he was stabbed again and again and again. It all permeates as much as Clint's cover's body spray did, the red, making it hard to think, hard to see beyond his absent sight, and he takes a drunken step forward, presses his fingers to the wall that runs alongside the steps that come down into his apartment, hoping it will help, praying for a touchstone. He makes it down a handful of stairs, something like wild optimism rising in his chest, alongside the pain (he can make it, if he can just make it to the phone, make it to Claire), before it all goes to hell.

His foot catches on something, something likely broken by him, by Stick, less than a handful of days ago, and he trips. He hits the remaining steps face-first, so fast it takes him a moment to register what just happened, to grunt, no more winded that he already was (is his lung punctured? he can't tell. it hurts. father forgive him -- both of them), and try to sit up. All he manages is to slide the rest of the way down the steps to the ground and for black to join the red, a memory of tunnel vision closing in on the edges of his mind's eye, as what little he can get from his other senses slips, stutters, unconsciousness creeping up on him. He doesn't try to get up again, after that, just lays there, panting. He doesn't even hear the door opening again above him, practically miles away.

He doesn't know how many minutes pass, him laying there, but eventually and what seems to him suddenly, something occurs to him. He shifts again, not trying to get up this time but to press his shaking fingers to the comm at his ear, always worn, just in case, but rarely used outside of his team ups with Clint and Natasha. It takes him three tries to actually get there, actually find his ear, and when he manages, it takes a moment more of false starts to fight past the black and find the breath for his words. It never occurs to him to think that the Avengers, if they're listening, already know what's going on, if only to a certain degree, that the comms are always transmitting, always receiving, that help may already be on the way.

"Little -- little help here?" he chokes out. "I need help. Please."

The red and black catch up to him, after that, as relentless as he's ever been in the same colors, and he slips into something like twilight.

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Tony barks out a laugh, at that, because, well. Now that you mention it. "He's got a point."

He lets Matt think for a moment while he does, and then nods. "That'll work. I think the spies already have some tracking missions programmed in. We'll just turn one down."

"Remind me to come up with a counter-argument for you people, later." Seriously, guys. Despite the appearance of random ninjas, his life is not a movie.

He shakes his head faintly, that in mind, that said, and as Tony continues, hums, not quite pleased with getting the watered down version of anything, but at least satisfied. It's better than not being able to do anything. He has to keep that in mind.

Tony just chuckles again. "There are literally comic books about me and Cap. Give it a while."

He shoots him a sympathetic look in response to the hum. "When you're back to full strength, you can come by and really play." Not that he doesn't think Matt gets enough practice on the streets, but the holodeck is awesome, okay? Everyone wants to play on it.

"Pretty sure that's not something I really have to worry about." Considering, you know, he's still more or less Public Enemy Number One. There are a few people outside the Avengers, who know better (like Claire, who knew he was on the level even before she pulled him out of the dumpster, thanks to the glowing testimonies of some of the people he'd saved) but not many. Most people still blame him for bringing down half the Kitchen. Again.

(Then again, maybe he'll make an appearance as a villain in a comic, sooner rather than later, by that logic. He's not sure that thrills him much.)

"I'll keep that in mind, though." Maybe, once he's back at full strength, he'll have Tony put him up against endless waves of thugs, just to see how long he can keep up before he has to stop -- or before someone makes him stop, because Jesus Christ, Matt, it's just a bunch of holograms, you don't need to break something, trying to prove something. Either way.

And again, Tony pulls a face, glancing at the numbers over the elevator as it slows to a stop. "You'll get there. Fisk won't stay clean forever." They're still working on the best way to out him; he wishes they were farther along.

"JARVIS isn't going to stop you coming up again, if you can find valid reasons to be here." Matt's welcome in the Tower, is his point, and he pauses a moment to let that sink in before he pushes off the wall to lead the way out of the elevator, toward the holodeck.

"Sorry," Matt answers immediately.

It's an odd response to a reassurance, a thanks or I know more appropriate, probably, but -- well, he doesn't mean to seem so negative or unappreciative, hence the apology. He knows they're trying and he appreciates that, and God knows he is, but it's been a long week. He'll bounce back, probably about the time he can actually hit the streets again and feels like he's making progress (or at least not giving Fisk any breathing room), but right now, it's hard.

"We'll get there," he repeats. And if he doesn't seem aware of the gravity of the way he put that, we not I, it's because he isn't. He doesn't recognize his own little slip there. He doesn't realize that he more or less just admitted to being damn grateful that someone, several someones, have his back, now, despite how genuinely worried he is about getting them all killed just by associating with him. He considers himself more a part of the team than he's aware of on a conscious level.

"And thanks," he finishes, that final, willful gratitude meant for both the reassurance and the offer.

Tony glances back at him, raising an eyebrow at the apology, ready to dismiss it - and then offers him a surprisingly real smile, considering how rare it is that he deals them out. "We'll get there," Tony echoes and corrects himself all at once.

"And you're welcome," he adds as the doors to the holodeck open and he leads the way inside. "I'm going to find myself a nice corner and hide behind a hologram while you stress test my suit." JARVIS will get him the data in real time, of course, but he wants to watch the old fashioned way, too. "You need to warm up or anything?"

Tony feels sure Matt's seen the ridiculous levels Clint takes "warming up" to, by now.

If Matt notices what he said now that Tony's parroted it back to him, he doesn't respond beyond flashing him a smile of his own before lapsing into silence. The latter persists until he poses the question about warming up.

"Let me stretch out a little, before we start?"

He's sure he's stiffer than he realizes, from his injuries (and healing from them) and however long of more or less just sitting around, now. Having a few minutes to try and banish that, albeit, yes, much less ridiculously than Clint, will definitely help.

"Take your time," Tony agrees. "I'll get things set up while you do."

JARVIS does have the spies' programs already saved, but Tony wants to make Matt a folder and tweak things a bit for him. It's probably going to be generally familiar territory to Matt, a cityscape with rooftops for him to run around on and a street for his target. He'll keep the civilians to a minimum tonight, but there will still be enough noise to make it realistic.

"I'll let you know when I'm ready," he says, already pulling his arms up over his head. He plans on going through a series of runner's stretches (legs, back and hips, arms), since he figures he's going to be doing a lot of that, if he's tailing someone, and --

And he pauses, mid-stretch to turn in Tony's presumed direction. "Oh, uh -- should I take off my shoes?" Will that make it easier for JARVIS to recreate the boots? He knows he could just ask JARVIS himself, that the AI is more than he pretends to be, but half the time, he's not sure it wouldn't be rude to address him directly. Half the time, he's not sure he has the right, because he's not team, not family.

Tony waves a hand at him, acknowledging that and telling him to go ahead. At the question, he glances back at him - and then up at the ceiling as JARVIS beats him to it.

"That's not necessary, Mister Murdock."

"I'd tell you it might be less jarring if you were actually wearing shoes when it looks like you are, but I don't actually know how this is going to end up feeling to you." As much as he thinks he gets how Matt perceives things, the holodeck is still kind of a new thing.

"We'll see how it goes," Matt says, shrugging faintly as he returns to his stretches.

A long few minutes follow, as he warms up, shakes out, tests how far he can move in this direction and that (or, well, as much as he can, at a standstill) before something starts to hurt again. Not that he won't push himself beyond that if he needs to, but it's good to know what's going to get uncomfortable, and either way, as promised, it's all a lot less awkward than the routine Clint goes through, when he's being a smart ass.

When he finishes, he bounces on the balls of his feet a handful of times, then lets out a long, slow breath. "Okay, uh." Whenever everyone's ready.

(If JARVIS could do the mask, too, when they start, though, that'd be great. He still feels half-naked without it.)

Tony zones back in from his mental tinkering when Matt finishes to keep himself from speaking through JARVIS (the Avengers might be used to the occasional Voice of Legion routine, but he doesn't want to startle him with it). "And we've got you something put together. I'll hide over here" - and mask himself with more holograms - "but if I'm distracting, let me know."

He pauses a beat. "And I'm going to start it up," he warns him - and then the room changes, Tony himself, by all appearances, disappearing as Matt finds himself standing on a rooftop overlooking a city. JARVIS has fixed the shoe issue, too, and given him the cowl - and in a few moments, when he judges that Matt's adjusted to the change in scenery, there will be the sound of breaking glass, and a scream. There's not a lot of actual story, here - he's mostly trying to give Matt a direction.

Matt hums in lieu of an actual answer and straightens, steeling himself for how jarring, still, he knows this will be. It's worse yet, with his shoes changing, with having the cowl on suddenly, but to his credit, he doesn't startle. The only sign of surprise he actually does show is to reach up and trace his fingers over the horns on the mask.

He drops his hand a moment later and moves to the edge of the rooftop, leaning over the small wall that encircles it, getting a feel for the city. It's -- strange. He can hear Tony, if he really tries, his breathing, his heartbeat, but that's easy enough to tune out as white noise. What strikes him as odd is the fact that the city feels quieter than it should. He knows that's probably Tony's doing, not loading in the entire population of this part of the city either because he's not feeling up to it or because he thinks he might not be, but it fills him with an odd sense of anticipation all the same. It's quiet, too quiet.

And then there's the sound of breaking glass.

Head snapping in that direction, he seems to stare off into the distance for a moment, trying to place where, exactly it came from. When he feels he has at least a decent idea, he takes a few steps back from the edge of the roof, practically bouncing, and then breaks into a run. He clears the edge of the roof, the wall around it easily, and lands on a fire escape on the next building over. He keeps going without pause, wanting to build momentum rather than break it, and sooner rather than later, he comes to pause on a narrow balcony, a broken window beyond it.

Rather than immediately barge in, however, he slips up against the wall, out of sight, and listens. He doesn't need a narrative, but he at least needs to know if it's a good idea to barge right in.

The glass is inside the apartment, and from inside, there's the sound of someone rifling around. There's also the sound of a woman calling for help farther inside the building, the sound of her knocking on doors; clearly, she decided running was a better idea trying to deal with the burglar.

The window is open, as is the apartment's front door. It's a fairly basic apartment - an open front area with a kitchen and living room, a bedroom, and a bathroom. Right now, the burglar seems to be in the back of the place, likely in the bedroom, rummaging through the owner's belongings.

The fact that she ran is good -- it means that he won't be dealing with a hostage situation, here. The fact that he can't smell gunpowder, either, is better -- what he comes up with, when he focuses on that beyond the scents of the city and the apartment, is tempered metal and cologne. It means the guy has a knife, but he won't be getting shot at any time soon.

Satisfied, he pushes away from the wall and creeps into the apartment, weaving through the bigger shards of glass to avoid giving too much of himself away. He manages, mostly-silent, what little noise he does make lost to the burglar as he goes through the woman's things, and he pauses, once he's cleared the minefield, to reach for the sticks at his hip. Or for where they should be, anyway. It surprises him, however briefly, that they're not there, but -- well, whatever. He can do without.

He raises his head, posture slipping into something a little more combative, and as if on cue, the burglar takes this time to exit the bedroom. The burglar freezes, able to make him out in the dark if only because he's backlit by the lights of the city flooding in from outside, swears, and then makes a break for the door. Matt hums, amused (well, there's the chase he was hoping for, when he thought he was going to get jipped out of it by finding him too quickly), and bursts into a run after him.

The burglar is small and fast, and he heads straight for the stairwell, bolting down them like - well. Like the devil himself is after him, which isn't that far from the truth, of course. He still has the knife and has his pockets full of cash and jewelry, now, the latter of which is jingling loudly enough that it's likely to give Matt something else to track him by if he does get too far ahead.

He makes the ground floor and hits the street still running.

Matt hesitates at the top of the stairwell, tempted to vault over the railing and come down in front of the guy, cutting him off. He thinks better of, however, not because he's afraid he'll hurt himself (he's never been afraid for himself), but because he doesn't want all this to be over too quickly. It's a little sadistic, maybe, wanting to play cat and mouse, but it's just a game. None of this is real.

Never mind the fact that he'd probably be doing the same damn thing, if it was.

Either way, he starts off again, bounding down the steps two at a time (he can allow himself that, at least, can't let the burglar get away entirely). He pauses again when he clears the outside door, this stop shorter still than the last, and then makes in the direction of jangling loot.

It takes him a few blocks to catch up, longer than it would have otherwise, and if only because the guy is losing speed (so is he, more winded than he should be if he weren't still healing, but he has the advantage of practice), and he almost loses him around a few twists and turns through the city, but he does manage. When he does, he wastes not time dropping to a crouch and kicking a foot out, trying to take the burglar's feet out from under him. It'll keep him from running and give him a minute to catch his breath, he figures.

The burglar goes down hard, all but rolling to a stop. He struggles to get back to his feet, fumbling to draw his knife. He's completely out of breath, though, palms bleeding from trying to catch himself when he fell, and he's really not doing very well in recovering.

Matt draws himself back up to his full height, breathing heavily. In spite of that, though, he still manages to mutter a, "Yeah, no," as he puts a foot down on the burglar's wrist to stop him from getting at the knife. He rocks forward, once he's pinned, putting all of his weight on the one foot and holds there, expecting something to break or bruise. Wanting it to.

He tries to pull away but doesn't get far - and then grits his teeth, switching instead to grabbing Matt's ankle, physically trying to pull his foot off his wrist as his bones grind into the pavement. "Ow, ow, shit, I'm sorry, man, just...." he trails off with another cry as something crunches, babbling something about not doing it again if Matt lets him go.

"No. You won't," Matt promises, stepping back off of his wrist.

Not that he plans on letting him go -- oh, no, instead, he steps over him, feet on either side of his hips and reaches down to grab the guy by his hair, hauling him up, not back to his feet but at least off the ground and into his face. Matt flashes him an unpleasant smile as he brings up his other hand in a fist and hits him as hard as he can, aiming for a clean knockout. If that doesn't work, he has no real problem hitting him again until it sticks.

It takes, and the guy goes limp in Matt's grip --

and then everything seems to pause a few moments before JARVIS interjects. "Would you like to end the session, sir?"

He can find him something else to do, if not - Tony's clearly not objecting, yet, though he probably should.

Matt lets him drop, pausing, too, once he's straightened and everything seems to go still. At the question, he looks up, despite the fact that JARVIS' voice is probably coming from his earbud rather than from the sky, randomly, and then he shifts, crouching down over the guy again so he can start going through his pockets for what he ran off with from the apartment.

"Let me run this back, first," Matt says, an explanation for what he's doing. "I don't need anyone else to hunt down, just -- it'll give us both a few more minutes to get used to the new suit and how it feels."

More than that, it'll make Matt feel less like he just beat the shit out of a guy, real or not, because he literally had nothing better to do. He's not a thug. That's not why he does this, even if he likes a good fight. He's one of the good guys, and if this were the real world, he'd be running the loot the burglar took back, too, because without it, maybe that woman wouldn't be able to pay her rent or put food on the table. He'd be running it back because otherwise, this money goes to the cops, more than half of whom are on Fisk's payroll.

JARVIS doesn't answer, but the simulation does resume, the sounds of the city picking up around Matt again as he unfreezes everything. There is the sound of sirens in the distance, too, back the way Matt came. Presumably the burglar's victim got someone to call 911 for her. It fits the average response time of the police force, anyway.

rp | all the hurt that brought me here

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