Season III
Daredevil sat quietly on a balcony in Gotham City. The couple in the adjacent apartment were dead asleep, their snores illuminating the framework of the building for The Man Without Fear. His pulse had returned to normal, and he could glare out at the city without an impending crisis looming over his head. He had come here, to Gotham, in hopes of confronting Bruce Wayne about the Joker. He had, instead, had to fend off two psychopaths, barely escaping with his life from either encounter. His troubles tonight, too, were even plagued with the presence of the Joker. Somehow, the deranged clown who had terrorized the nation had manged to find a way into each and every corner of the lives of Gotham's most valiant knights. Daredevil sighed deeply, feeling the chemical burns from Scarecrow's toxin lingering on his lungs. He was perched on the ledge of a balcony in the middle of a city he was a mere visitor to when Daredevil came to a small realization. For the first time in days, nearly a week and a half, he was able to sit and think.
Things had grown ever more complicated in the world these days. Freaks like Bullseye, Scarecrow, or The Joker were running rampant. For every one hero like Dent, Batman, or Daredevil that appeared, four or five characters appeared who would fight them at every turn.
Daredevil's eyes wandered around the city. As he breathed, essentially catching his breath from the past few days, he felt his skin stretching. He'd suffered stab-wounds, chemical burns, and countless bruises and scrapes. But, still, he had forced himself on. He had refused to stop fighting. His costume was torn, and patches of it were rife with the stench of blood, but, still, he was at least in one piece.
He stood up, stretching. Every bone in his body cracked as he rose slowly to his feet. A cool breeze blew, and a flag mounted on a building a few blocks away swayed in the wind.
A storm was rolling into Gotham.
The couple in the bedroom stirred as thunder echoed in the distance. In silence, Daredevil crept, making his way to the rooftop by climbing a nearby pipe. It was rusty, but it held.
Daredevil gripped the ledge above him and pulled himself onto the rooftop.
He had to go back to Hell's Kitchen.
As much as he might not want to admit it to himself, his work had become as much a part of the borough as the tar on the streets or the bricks in the walls. What was more, the borough had become a part of him. His attitude, his unique style of justice, had been crafted and shaped by what the Kitchen had done to him. His identity, persona, and actions were all direct results of his upbringing in Hell. He was, in every sense of the word, a product of his environment. That's why he couldn't stay in Gotham. Harvey and Bruce had their jobs to do in the city, but Daredevil was needed back in New York. If the thugs and goons in the dark alleys got word that Daredevil had left Hell's Kitchen, all his work would be undone, and the situation would be even more dire than when the Crimson Knight had made his debut.
The character's breathing slowed, and his eyelids drooped.
Why couldn't things be simple anymore? In the past, things were so black and white. Daredevil would hear a crime, arrive on the scene, and batter the thug or criminal mercilessly until he surrendered. Now, though... now a villain sat in a high-priced bar, drinking expensive martinis in a pin striped suit. Villains used the system, the very system Matthew Murdock had devoted his civilian life to, to impose their wills onto society. Civilians were no longer stumbling into crimes. They were targets. The phrase "wrong place, wrong time" rarely applied anymore.
A siren bellowed in the distance.
Daredevil decided to let the police handle the situation. He had taken almost too much of a beating tonight; mentally and physically. Harvey Dent, one of his oldest friends, was nearly killed on this night. The events in Gotham's underworld had finally started hitting too close to home for Daredevil.
In short, things were getting to him, and he hated it.
A pigeon cooed behind him. His gaze shifted over his shoulder and his sight loomed on the bird for a moment. It squawked again, this time taking off into the night's sky.
Daredevil dipped his head. It was time to leave Gotham.
Of course, there were two people who had to know that Daredevil's brief stint in Gotham was coming to a close. One of them was Bruce Wayne, Batman. The other was Harvey Dent, District Attorney.
Dent was living in a hotel room, so dedicated to his work that he hadn't made the time to even get a place to live in the city.
The pigeons cried as Daredevil vaulted backwards, over their heads. He landed with ease on the opposite edge of the building. As if in slow motion, he fell backwards. The horns and sirens blaring through the city illuminated the world that was Gotham, as Daredevil ducked, sprinted, and swung along the city's brick-laden interior.
The hotel was only a few blocks away, and Dent's window was open. Daredevil heard Dent's skin moving along the decorative quilt that adorned the bed.
He hadn't even bothered to get under the sheets.
"Rough night." Daredevil growled from the shadows, perched on the windowsill.
"We're lucky you made it out in one piece."
