arcane ᵈᵃʳᵉᵈᵉᵛⁱˡ

oo1. seventeen year old soliders

Stick never meant to find another child and train them up. He never meant to make the same mistakes he made with Matt Murdock, Mary Rose Leeds and Elektra Natchios. He never meant for Daisy Lewis to become another child solider in a never ending war.

Stick didn't mean for the child to grow attached to him. He didn't want to raise another solider, but he had.

A blind girl who was purely devoted to a war. A girl so willing to become a martyr. An orphan with his abilities. An orphan he had corrupted to fight the war against the Hand.

Stick didn't usually feel guilt. He could kill, he could hurt others, but he felt the slightest of guilt. Guilt for guiding Matt, Elektra, Mary and Daisy down a dangerous path. But each of them were special — perfectly crafted for the war. Abilities beyond belief. Loyalty from each that he didn't deserve.

He left two of them. There was no more Matt and Elektra, and it was only so long before he'd leave Daisy.

She knew that. He knew she knew. He knew she feared the day she wasn't good enough. He knew from how hard she tried, how worn out her body was, how tired her mind was.

But Daisy wouldn't stop. Training gave her a reason to live, a reason to wake up each day. She met with Stick the same time every day, or he would take her when he needed her prior to their schedule. There wasn't a thing she wouldn't do to impress him. She didn't want to kill, but if she had to then she would. Her heart beat to impress people.

Daisy wasn't like Stick. She reminded him of Matt. The compassion and empathy she held for people, the questions despite the rule of no asking, the ability to make people love her. Her morals, her abilities. Daisy was like Matt, and sometimes Stick felt like he was there. She had met Matt only a small about of times, the same amount of times she had met Elektra. But Elektra was dead and Stick would soon push himself away from Daisy.

It was only so long before she became too weak. But Daisy would always be in danger, for as long as she was a teenager fighting a war. He was her safety, but he was no a promise. Stick didn't see the girl as weak — she was strong, a warrior like his Elektra. But she was still a child. A child in a world that failed her. A world that made her pay rent instead of eat food. A world that had her starving herself because rent for a seventeen (eighteen in two weeks) year old was ridiculous. Hell, she shouldn't be able to live alone, but the system didn't seem to see that.

She had once lived in Brooklyn, where she lost her sight in a tragic accident that killed her parents. Her last memory of sight was her parents dead body. But at least she survived, and was now on standby waiting for Sticks signal to save him. The man had got himself a little tied up for the war.

"The war that you've been fighting your entire life, Stick, it's over."

The man flexed his hands, pulling them into fists and straightening them out, right after. Daisy hoped that wasn't the signal, because in all honesty he had never given her a signal. He had awoken her at three in the morning, got himself caught and tied up and whispered into the darkness 'to attack within the signal'. Apparently, Stick liked the dramatics of there not being an established signal. Or maybe there was one, and she just had to think.

Stick didn't always say things, he often beat around the bush, forced her to use her brain. She had to master things with out being told how to. But this wasn't the time for thinking, this was the time for acting. Only, she didn't know when to act — she'd have to guess and hope it was right. So, she stayed put, leaning against a wall, her head leaning against the handle of a sword, a weapon she was recently learning to use.

"Long as Iron Fist lives, nothing's over."

Iron Fist. A person — or so Daisy believed — who held the power of strength and ending the war. She was a pawn until Iron Fist was to end the war. Her life was to protect someone's she had never met. Her life relied on Iron Fist being on their side. So there was a lot of space for failure — not failure for her, but of some man picking the wrong side.