Blackout | Matt Murdock

interlude iii | this girl takes self-care to a whole new level

[Frankly, the author has no idea when this takes place in the story, but damn if she isn't going to post it anyway]

The smoke is thick in the air as Michaela blinks back to awareness. She's laid out on her side, one leg hitched up under her arm, the other splayed out at an awkward angle. Dirt and grit bite into the cheek she's got shoved into the asphalt, scraping over the hands she's slowly trying to get under herself. Her ears are ringing, the sounds around her distorted and muffled, although — if she's remembering things right — she can make a pretty well-educated guess as to what she would be hearing if her ears were working at full capacity. As Michaela shakily rolls onto her knees, hands braced against the ground, she has a moment of what the fuck am I doing here that's almost overwhelming.

Manhattan. She's in Manhattan, for some godforsaken reason, so far outside her home turf that she's basically trespassing at this point. And for what? The Avengers have this handled, don't they?

The explosion that rocks the ground beneath her, accompanied by the furious roar of what she presumes to be the large green rage monster employed by the Avengers and the crash shattering glass, does not seem to support that idea.

Groaning, Michaela digs her teeth into the inside of her cheek, suppressing a scream as she leverages herself upright onto her feet. Nothing's broken, she thinks, though every inch of her skin aches with the forewarning of deep-black bruises and when she takes a step forward her ankle threatens to roll and snap like a twig, so. Baby steps. She blinks again, breathing shallowly to avoid sucking down a lungful of smoke. The street's wrecked — chunks gouged out from the road, overturned cars stuck like turtles on the sidewalks, lamp posts ripped out by the roots and carelessly tossed aside. And people, dozens of people running for cover; more precisely, they're running through the aftermath of the latest strike from who-the-fuck-ever the Avengers are fighting, probably hopeful that since this area is already ruined the villain won't be making a repeat appearance.

For their sakes, more than her own, Michaela hopes they're right in that assumption.

But, fuck, Michaela is here for a reason. A flimsy reason, in hindsight, but one she has no desire to abandon now that she's somewhat recovered her wits. The Avengers can't be focused on civilians every second of the battle (something that became startling clear to her the last time she watched news footage of the Avengers in action). It's not their fault, honestly it isn't; they're stretched thin as it is already with the bad guy (or gal, it's not like Michaela got a good look at them earlier), and it's more important that they neutralize the threat altogether, so that the carnage doesn't spread to engulf the entire city.

It didn't take much convincing to get the rest of her merry band of vigilantes to agree with her, and well, here they are.

"Blackout!"

Michaela lurches to the side, backing herself against the rust-pitted door of a half-burnt car so that her wobbly legs won't be as obvious. Spider-Man drops down in front of her, letting go of his web and freeing both hands to hover anxiously over Michaela's — probably everything, if she's taking a shot at honesty today. She knows her mask is partially ripped, feels the warm, oozing blood trickling down from her nose and over her upper lip. The cut in her cheek is gonna need to be flushed out as soon as possible, given the dust and debris it must have collected while she was on the ground. And, oh this is just dandy, one of the lenses of her goggles is cracked. She can still see through it but it's like there's a jagged line ripping through reality. Which. Who the fuck knows, maybe that's exactly what today's villain aims to do. Again, she didn't glean too much from them before she set herself on civilian duty and left the big threat to the Avengers.