2015pre daredevil season one

⠀⠀⠀⠀The jukebox began to start another song that should have remained unplayed. The past three songs had been outdated country songs, which should have been rotated out of the title index years before in trade for newer releases. The bartender groaned, having grown annoyed at the patron's constant genre choice. However, the tattooed man had paid four shiny quarters for an equal amount of playlist control, so he would be dammed if he didn't sip on a beer and shoot pool while listening to something he wanted to.

⠀⠀⠀⠀"Belkin! That's your last rotation on my music box!" The bartender called across the half-full establishment. The burly man only spared her a glance and waved his hand in a dismissive yet acknowledging fashion before refocusing on his shot. The woman set another shot glass on the countertop before the youngest patron. "You being stood up, L? You know I'd bust some knee caps for you, darlin'."

⠀⠀⠀⠀The girl looked up from her phone, a small smile finding its way onto her face. "It's not a date, Josie. My mentor is supposed to be meeting me here to celebrate." She placed her phone on the bar, exchanging it for the glass offered.

⠀⠀⠀⠀"Celebrating? Did I miss your birthday?" Josie inquired, thin eyebrows furrowed as she tried to recall if she had missed an important date on the calendar. The girl's birthday had been clearly marked in bold red letters for the past two years. It seemed impossible that she would have missed it.

⠀⠀⠀⠀"Oh!" The brunette's face lit up, her smile growing wider with realization. "I forgot to tell you! I'm graduating!"

⠀⠀⠀⠀Josie's facial expressions now mirrored the girl's, her thin lips spreading across her face, deep wrinkles setting into her skin. "That's my fucking girl!" She leaned over the bar, neck swiveling both ways so everyone would hear her, "Did y'all hear that?" For a short woman, she sure could project her voice. The patrons went quiet, all eyes on the bar owner. "Our girl is fuckin' graduatin'!"

⠀⠀⠀⠀The regulars who knew what Josie was referring to let out loud cheers, congratulating the youngest regular. She had found a small refuge in Josie's Bar for the past two years. She would spend every Saturday night there, occasionally bringing a friend, and pretend that her graduate experience was anything but absurd. She would pretend that the sky didn't open up and aliens didn't decimate the city. Others looked around, confused, not understanding why people were hollering. They clapped anyway, finding joy in a stranger's achievement. These days, one person's victory is everyone's victory.

⠀⠀⠀⠀"Let me put on another song to celebrate!" Tom Belkin called, his hand already deep in his blue denim jeans as he fished for another quarter. The girl insistently shook her head no, not able to hear any more lyrics about losing wives or broken-down trucks. "Fine!" He retorted, finally producing a circular coin between his thumb and forefinger. "I suppose it's only fair that you get to choose the song."

⠀⠀⠀⠀"Choose anything besides country, and we'll call it even," she offered. The man cut his eyes playfully at her before nodding. Approaching the machine, he interred the quarter. The metallic clink of the coin joining his others inside was heard before he made his selection. The sound of Elvis Presley's "Jailhouse Rock" filled the small bar, and she gave the man a thumbs up when he looked over his shoulder for approval.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Josie let out a sigh of relief, "Thank fuckin' God." Her relief lasted only a second before her attention was directed to a man sliding into the seat next to her shining star. "Oh no! No way! Get your ass out of my establishment before I have one of my boys kick you out!" Her entire demeanor had changed.

⠀⠀⠀⠀The brunette turned back around, puzzled by the bar owner's tone. She was an ordinarily pleasant woman, always accepting and welcoming. As long as you paid your bill (no tabs, for fucks sake), she didn't care who you were or what you did. To her surprise, the woman's tone was directed at the man who was supposed to be meeting her there: her mentor.

⠀⠀⠀⠀"Josie! I am so sorry!" He replied, holding his hands up in the air as if to declare a surrender. "I was a young reporter being hazed by a bunch of dicks who didn't want to write their own stories."

⠀⠀⠀⠀"What are you talking about?" The mentee asked her mentor, eyes going between offender and offended several times.

"Ten years ago, Eddie Brock wrote a review about this fine establishment for the Daily Globe. He described it as 'a filthy watering hole whose only paying customers were criminals, and that's if they paid'." Josie looked at the girl, "I can't believe he's your mentor. It's a surprise you're graduatin' at all."

⠀⠀⠀⠀"I apologized profusely for the following five years," Brock defended himself. "But Josie refused to hear any of my excuses. In fact, she had me thrown out of the bar several times."

⠀⠀⠀⠀The brunette stifled a laugh, amused by the years-long feud. "Please don't kick him out, Jo. Just this once. For me." She dramatically batted her eyelashes, giving the woman her best impression of puppy dog eyes.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Josie sighed, grabbing a beer bottle without looking. Her gaze remained on her professed enemy as she twisted off the cap with her bare hand. Sliding it across the smooth surface with careful precision that only a master bartender could have, the beverage stopped in front of the man. "Only for you, L," the woman said, giving Brock one more pointed look before leaving the pair to help other customers.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Eddie finally turned to address his mentee, his mouth already upturned in a grin, "Lorelai Castiglione, you did it you son of a bitch! Your crazy ninja article received your professor's stamp of approval."

⠀⠀⠀⠀"It wasn't crazy," she muttered, letting out a breath that caused her dark hair to fly into the air for a split second. "It's real."

⠀⠀⠀⠀"Ah, yes," Brock recalled their conversation from a month before about the finished article that was her capstone project and determined if she would graduate. "Stick!"

⠀⠀⠀⠀"Your craft is solid but I wouldn't expect any reputable tabloid to hire you based on this article."

⠀⠀⠀⠀"What? Why?"

⠀⠀⠀⠀"It comes off as completely fabricated. Ninjas? In Hell's Kitchen?"

⠀⠀⠀⠀"Two years ago New York was invaded by aliens and you're questioning the existence of ninjas?"

⠀⠀⠀⠀"Fine. Who's your source? You don't name them."

⠀⠀⠀⠀"They asked me not to. I promised them anonymity."

⠀⠀⠀⠀"That works for deep background. But you and I both know that you are completely aware that any real piece needs reputable named sources in order to validate the story."

⠀⠀⠀⠀"My source is reputable! He literally fought the ninjas!"

⠀⠀⠀⠀"What's his name?"

⠀⠀⠀⠀"Stick."

⠀⠀⠀⠀"Stick?"

⠀⠀⠀⠀"Yes, Stick"

⠀⠀⠀⠀"You do understand why I can't allow you to submit this as your final project, correct? If you turn this in, you will not be graduating."

⠀⠀⠀⠀"Eddie! You know there are crime syndicates in New York. You've written about them. How is this any different?"

⠀⠀⠀⠀"Lorelai, I need you to listen to yourself. You want to turn in an article that determines if you graduate with no named sources that says there are ninjas lurking in the shadows of Hell's Kitchen."

⠀⠀⠀⠀"Okay, I'll name Stick in the article. He'll never see it."

⠀⠀⠀⠀"One, that's against our code of ethics. You know better. Two, I guarantee that if you attribute these quotes to a guy named Stick, it'll only make it worse. I'd rather you turn in this article with no named sources."

⠀⠀⠀⠀"Then I will!"

⠀⠀⠀⠀"You won't! You're going to start from square one. Pitch me another story."

⠀⠀⠀⠀"I don't have any other stories to pitch, Eddie. I put two months into writing this article. Do you know how long it took me to track down Stick?"

⠀⠀⠀⠀"Please stop calling him that. It's ridiculous."

⠀⠀⠀⠀"That's his name!"

⠀⠀⠀⠀"Nobody names their kid Stick."

⠀⠀⠀⠀"Stick is a real person, Eddie!" She argued.

⠀⠀⠀⠀"Agree to disagree," he replied, tipping his bottle towards her as a sign of submission. "What did your professor have to say?"

⠀⠀⠀⠀"He's one of the lead crime reporters at the New York Times. He checked my details against information he received from his connections at the NYPD," she explained. "As it turns out, because I'm a great fucking investigator, there a few cold cases that match the details of my article. My professor was thoroughly impressed, even told me he wanted to show my story to his editor."

⠀⠀⠀⠀"So there's a possibility that the New York Times is going to tell everyone that ninjas are real?" Brock laughed in disbelief.

⠀⠀⠀⠀"The ninjas are real and one day I'm gonna find them."

— † —

⠀⠀⠀⠀"Are you sure I can't walk you home?" Eddie asked for the third time in the five minutes since the pair had decided it was time to leave. "Didn't you hear that Hell's Kitchen has a ninja problem now? Just think..." he trailed off, leaning close to her, whispering in her ear. "They could be right behind you!" His fingers playfully jabbed into her sides, making the girl yelp.

⠀⠀⠀⠀"You fucking asshole!" Lorelai huffed, elbowing him harshly in the chest. He let out a soft grunt as he recovered from her defensive tactics. She hadn't realized how hard she had hit him, how much force had unknowingly been put into her swing. "When the authorities find your mangled corpse in an alleyway and I see your photo on the news, I'm going to laugh and tell you 'I told you so.'"

⠀⠀⠀⠀"Will you at least cry after?" He quipped.

⠀⠀⠀⠀"Depends on the weather."

⠀⠀⠀⠀After a few more snarky exchanges, the two parted ways, but only after Brock asked once more if he could walk Lorelai home, and she said no. With a promise to text him once she made it to her apartment ten minutes away, he left her with a hug and another congratulation for good measure. "Remember this moment when you cry over my untimely death," he had said, a sarcastic smirk accompanying the statement. She simply flicked him off, not sparing him a glance backward.

⠀⠀⠀⠀As a New York resident, Lorelai should have known better than to walk the borough's sidewalks without her apartment keys slotted between her fingers, let alone by herself at night. Her high spirits simply carried her from the bar down the city streets, euphoria overshadowing any logic. She hummed the tune of the Elvis Presley song that Belkin had played, the lyrics stuck in her head. Crossing one more quiet intersection, she spots the entrance of her building.

⠀⠀⠀⠀She was thrown against the brick wall of the alleyway, a wince of pain falling from her lips. All euphoria had dissipated into thin air, fear replacing it. The man's hands wrapped around her throat, and the other covered her mouth. "Don't make this difficult, pretty," he husked, vile breath fanning over her face. "If you scream, I'll send your pretty little head right into that wall." He asked her if she understood, but she didn't answer. He took her silence as a yes, hands exploring her body.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Lorelai was no longer in the alleyway. No, she was in the neighborhood church. Her assailant's hands were replaced by the priests as her childhood was defiled. Then, she was back in the confession booth, crying to the same man that ruined her, for he was the one she must seek to speak to God, her father said. She was hiccuping, fat tears streaming down her cheeks that hadn't yet lost the chubbiness of childhood. She was begging for forgiveness, asking if God still loved her and if she will be allowed into heaven. "Only through me may you absolve your sins," he said, leaving his side of the confession booth and entering hers. "This is the path to salvation. This is how you find God."

⠀⠀⠀⠀And it happened over and over and over. It happened until she no longer entered the confession booth or cried to the man that ruined her. She couldn't remember the last time he touched her, and she cried. (Was she even capable of crying anymore?) It happened until her body had thinned, the chubbiness of childhood long gone, and her body filled out its feminine form during her teenage years. She no longer begged for forgiveness, no longer asked if she had God's love or if heaven would receive her. She knew the answer to those questions: neither exists. She put God on trial and asked why He let these things happen to her, but no one answered.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Then she was confessing to her father. He had asked her why she no longer prayed and demanded she told him. So why was he screaming at her? Berating her? He called her every name in the book: a liar, a whore, a disgrace. He cut his ties with her and completely sawed off her branch of the family. He stormed out of the dining room, leaving the limb on the ground to rot. And all her mother could do was look her daughter in the eyes and plant seeds of hope that would eventually blossom into beautiful flowers. "I believe you." Those three words would nurture the seeds for months and help them grow until they were sprouting next to the skeleton of a branch that remained.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Finally, she was sitting in a pew with Frank. It was the first time she has stepped foot in a church since the morning she told her parents. She hadn't burst into flames like her father swore she would. Her cousin was crying. She wasn't. (Was she even capable of crying anymore?) "Lai, don't let this world eat you alive," he said, palms furiously trying to stop his tears at the source. "Don't let injustice infect you. If it does, cut it out." She nodded, not understanding his words but wanting to provide him comfort. "Promise me," he insisted, leaning his forehead against hers. "Promise you won't let injustice live. Kill it if you have to."

⠀⠀⠀⠀"I promise."

⠀⠀⠀⠀Back then, the promise had only been empty words meant to bring her best friend comfort. But now, as she reached for the blade in her bag and the man reached for the skirt of her dress, the words were suddenly full of meaning. And as her fingers curled around the handle and the man's fingers curled around the hem of her underwear, she knew what she had to do.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Lorelai cut out the infection.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Her assailant screamed as the blade pierced his stomach, a look of horror written across his features. With wide eyes and a slack mouth, he stumbled backward, hands no longer on her but on the stab wound she had caused. "You fucking bitch!" He seethed, leaving one palm over the damage and opening the other before him as he lunged in retribution.

She swiftly dodged out of his line of sight, the man hitting the wall instead of her. He attempted to recover but wasn't quick enough in his wounded state. She pierced his flesh once more, the infection still present. She couldn't remove it last time, but this time she can, piece by piece. He let out another cry, back pressed against the brick for support as he now used both hands in an attempt to stop the bleeding.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Lorelai approached him, the toes of her heels inches from his dirty sneakers. "Don't make this difficult, pretty," she mocked his words from earlier. (Oh, the grand reversal of fortune.) "Die quietly," she whispered, sinking the knife into his abdomen for the final time. She left it there, twisting her wrist to emphasize her point, to bring him more pain. He leaned forward, canines sinking into her exposed shoulder in an attempt to defend himself. (Oh, the grand reversal of fortune.)

⠀⠀⠀⠀The brunette bit the inside of her cheek, refusing to give the man the satisfaction of knowing he has caused her any pain. He will die defeated. She used her free hand to push his head backward, freeing her shoulder from his mouth. He took her blood with him, leaving an open bite mark in his wake. She hoped she tastes like rotten fruit, hoped he would choke on the decayed peach pit he just swallowed. "This is for all of the people you have touched before," she told him. With one sharp pull, she gutted him.

⠀⠀⠀⠀She pulled the knife from his body and stepped back, allowing the man to fall like a rag doll onto the asphalt. He convulsed, trying to force air into his lungs as he strained to keep his insides within the confines of his skin. She had sliced through arteries and veins, severing the branches of his circulatory system and opening them. Blood gushed out at an alarming rate. His hands holding his stomach did nothing as he hemorrhaged. Within minutes, he had died. Quietly, for he was below anyone knowing he was gone.

⠀⠀⠀⠀She stood over the body, simply staring at what she has done. Blood stains her hands. Everywhere she looked, she saw red. So much red. So much blood. How was it possible for so much blood to be inside one person? How was it possible she made so much blood spill? She hasn't entirely processed the consequences of her actions but had indeed answered the question of morality.

⠀⠀⠀⠀The man deserved to die. She knows it. She swears it.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Lorelai kept the weapon in one hand, finding her phone in her bag which had been previously discarded during their struggle. She unlocked it, selected his contact from her list of favorites, and waited. A smear of blood had been left on the glass screen. (The blood isn't hers, and that's what matters, he would say later.) Three monotone rings later, he answered. "Kinda busy, Lai." She heard a muffled shout in the background. He's working. "What's wrong?"

⠀⠀⠀⠀"I killed someone," she said. Only then does it feel real, like she is admitting to the world and herself what she had done. "I cut the infection out."

⠀⠀⠀⠀There was a second of silence as the words travel through the phone and hung in the air. "I'll be right there," he said. "Did he hurt you?" He tried. "Did he touch you?" Almost. "I'm proud of you," he stated, and she knew he meant it. "Injustice is an infection," he reminds her.

⠀⠀⠀⠀"Justice is the cure," she replied as if it was a trained response. "Even by death."

⠀⠀⠀⠀He informed her he was fifteen minutes away before disconnecting the call. The line beeped, and she simply dropped the phone back into her bag, which still sat on the ground by her feet. She continued to hold the knife and continued to look at the man. "You deserved to die," she whispered to him. He didn't respond.