//------------------------------// // Chapter 18 - A Damn Long Walk Home // Story: This War of Ours // by JDPrime22 //------------------------------// Hell’s Kitchen, Manhattan 7:00 a.m. It had been too long since Matthew Murdock had spoken with Father Lantom. And there certainly was much to discuss the minute—no, the second Matt stepped foot and cane into the cathedral. Normally, Matt would make his way over to the confessional, offer himself open to forgiveness for the blood he had spilled keeping the streets of Hell’s Kitchen safe. What many don’t know, what many shouldn’t know, is that beneath the exterior of a struggling, blind lawyer trying to find his place in the roughest parts of Manhattan, there was something else, something that was broken, twisted, and molded into something dangerous. Something sinister. Something that wanted blood but held back, refusing to kill. Not a murderer, not a saint. A devil. He carried that mantel, abandoned what was certain to be a life of murder and followed his own path. Doing so gave him a reputation. It also earned him some new friends and enemies on the streets. One friend in particular was Father Lantom, the man Matt was currently opening himself up to, the very few people that actually got to see that side of him. Matt knew it was dangerous releasing the secret, releasing the devil inside to show others. The ones who did know were dearly close to him. Friends. Close friends. Thank God. Father Lantom on the other hand was someone else. Matthew didn’t know a lot of things, especially trust in a place like Hell’s Kitchen. In the hottest place in Manhattan, sometimes the allies you make could be the closest friends you’ll ever get. Matthew stuck with that. He knew Father Lantom knew his identity, saw the devil beneath the saint. Surprisingly enough, Father Lantom didn’t seem to see it any other way. He knew what Matt was, what had happened to him. The young lawyer would come to his cathedral all the time and pray for forgiveness. From him, from the Lord, for everything he would do that night. Never once did Father Lantom tell him not to. Instead, he chose to guide the young spirit, lead him to righteousness instead of destruction. There was goodness in Matthew, even when the rest of the world was filled with pain, misery, and hate. Sometimes the world needed a hero or two, one in the streets, one fighting for the people. Today, Matthew didn’t ask for forgiveness, at least not for what he would do. Instead, he asked for forgiveness, and wished to pray for those suffering. Father Lantom knew exactly what Matthew meant. The whole world basically knew what Matthew meant. The past few weeks hadn’t been the most peaceful. Ever since Earth had been visited by a few extraterrestrial allies-to-be, the amount of attacks and deaths increased at a terrifying rate. Over 150 innocent men and women lost their lives in Washington D.C. not too long ago, several died protecting police stations raided by mercenaries, eleven Wakandans and many others lost their lives in Lagos, and the recent bombing at the United Nations in Vienna all added up. So much death. So much loss. And so, they prayed that dreary, cloudy morning. Prayed and did nothing more afterwards. No words of insight. No haunting final statements. Just a handshake, a step out of the cathedral, and a final goodbye. Father Lantom turned around to see the young lawyer make his way down the long, busy sidewalk, cane in hand, slowly making his way home. Thunder rumbled above, prompting the upcoming storm. Father Lantom tightened his coat and turned away. Matthew lifted his head to the sky. He could hear the thunder approaching, feel the coolness of the air suddenly become damp, the smell of rain quickly approaching. He didn’t have an umbrella, which probably wasn’t smart considering he could sense the storm coming after he woke up that morning. He thought he could make it back home before the storm hit, but that wasn’t the case. He had done a lot of wrong recently. A lot of people out there needed some prayers. He had spent quite some time at the cathedral and seemed to have lost track of it. His slow walk would soon become a speed walk. It would have, of course, if Matt didn’t stop dead in his tracks. His ears perked up, his head following suit, turning in the direction of the street two blocks down. Many pedestrians looked his way, gave him an odd look, and moved passed him to deal with their own business of the day. But not Matt. Matt stood right where he was, listening, staring, searching. He slowly turned his neck further right. “... Airport. How fast…” Matt paused, turning back and focusing in that direction. “… get me there?” “I can make it in less than an hour,” a distant voice replied. The first voice, the one that kept Matt right where he was, answered back. He said, “Alright. You know the way. Don’t stop. I’ll pay you when we get there.” The door of a taxi cab, yellow, made in ’98 had shut. The engine started, though a bit of trouble at first, then the driver and his occupant were off. And they were coming right for Matt. Quickly recognizing the voice he had heard, Matt hid within the crowd, but stood at a decent distance to get a good view of the road, as well as the cab that drove on by. And Matthew could see, sitting in the back of the taxi cab, a familiar figure wearing a heavy coat, large hat, and sunglasses. He didn’t see Matt, but Matt could see him. Through the world on fire, the voice, the face, none of it could be hidden. Matthew nearly dropped his cane. He nearly lost his breath. But he couldn’t lose the cab. Quickly shaking away whatever remaining stupor he had, Matt watched as the taxi made a left turn, disappearing behind the buildings. Matthew shot his gaze over to the nearest alley, and making sure no one was near to see, he entered the inviting darkness of it, then ran. He tossed his cane behind a garbage pail where he’d remember to find it, undid his tie, and took off his shades. No need for people to get suspicious. Climbing the nearest fence, Matt hopped up and jumped over to a nearby fire escape, climbing the ladder and reaching rooftop. Running over to the roof’s edge, he peered downwards, listening closely. He heard a couple arguing about which ring to buy for their wedding, he heard kids playing kickball in an alley three blocks down, a kid falling and scaping his knee. He heard hundreds of thousands of vehicles driving, engines roaring, horns blaring. Then he found it. Already a block away, quickly driving off. He remembered hearing something about an airport. He was gonna have a long run ahead of him. Queens, New York City LaGuardia Airport 7:57 a.m. Matt stumbled forward, drenched in sweat, completely out of breath, but finally stopped. Finally able to stop. He reared forward, almost blacked out for a second, and rested his hands on a nearby bench. Coughing loudly, Matt paused to let his hearing take control for a while. He heard a “thank you”, a “safe travels”, and the shutting of a cab door. Bringing his attention forward, Matt watched as the large, tan trench coat covering the man he was tracking swayed back and forth. He entered the crowds walking into the front doors of the massive airport, hidden among the hundreds of other voices. Coughing once more, Matt picked himself. His legs burned like all living hell. His heart hurt, the cramps in his sides basically tearing apart his insides. But he needed to move. He needed to know what the man was doing, why he was out in the world again, and just what he was planning. Matt entered the crowd among everyone else, appearing like everyone else, though severely sweaty and wearing torn clothes. He almost appeared homeless. But he didn’t have time for how people thought he looked. He had already lost enough time resting outside. Now inside, Matthew kept his gaze forward, following the crowd. But his hearing traveled, it searched when he couldn’t. It went from person to person, from an aggravated family waiting for their luggage, to an impatient line of people waiting for an elderly couple to pass through the metal detector. He searched and searched. Finally able to hear… “Here is your passport, Mr. Mason. Enjoy your flight. Oh, speaking of which…” Matt flinched as the intercom rang, the voice he heard earlier announcing, “Attention, the 8:30 flight to Vienna, Austria will now begin boarding. Please follow the directions and search for assistance at any Help Desk if necessary. Again, the 8:30 flight to Vienna, Austria will now begin boarding.” Twisting his neck into that direction where the intercom announcement originated, Matt could see through the crowds of people one who stood over almost everybody else, a trench coat and large hat covering him. He removed his sunglasses and eyed his passport, pocketing it away. It was him. However, the only thing off was when he was referred to as “Mr. Mason”. Frank Castle must have been using a fake ID. Why else would he be out in public? Matt couldn’t ponder for long, because he swore he could see Frank turn in his direction. Staring right at him. Quickly, Matthew dipped to cover, bumping into an unknown woman. Apologizing, Matt remained hidden for a moment longer before he made the brave attempt to look back. He saw Frank scan the crowds once, maybe twice, maybe searching for him. Eventually, he placed his sunglasses back where they belonged, dug his hands deep into his pockets, and escaped into the crowd. Matt stepped out, stared at Frank’s backside and watched as he entered the short line to the next flight. The line only grew shorter. Matt shot his gaze upwards. Above, a large sign hung over the line Frank stood in. Silently to himself, he read, “Vienna…” And then he watched as Frank Castle showed his passport to the flight attendant, the bright young woman smiling and allowing him to move on into the plane. He vanished alongside everybody else in the line with him. And that was it. Matt Murdock stood there for a long time. Probably too long. He stood there trying to understand and decipher what he just saw. Like why would Frank Castle, a man wanted for God knows how many counts of murder, who had barely escaped New York City’s judicial system only to be wandering around with a fake ID, flying all the way to… Vienna. The bombing. The murders. The only culprit behind it all. The Winter Soldier. Frank was going to… Matt took in a deep breath as he finally took a seat on a nearby bench, no longer occupied by a young couple after hearing their flight being called. Rubbing his hands through his sweaty hair, Matt thought back to all the pieces of the puzzle, pushing them together, creating the bigger picture. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t. Why would he? It was Frank Castle. He did what he wanted, even if it meant getting into the deepest shit imaginable. He needed to get back to the Kitchen, get back home. Karen needed to hear this. Matt picked up his head, then instantly let it drop once realization and fatigue settled in. No cash, no umbrella. Storm clouds hung heavy over the Kitchen. He had a damn long walk home.