Blackout | Matt Murdock

chapter eighteen | fucking wizards, man

Michaela is, obviously, an idiot.

There're the usual reasons, of course – she's reckless when it comes to the valiant heroics she engages in daily, somewhat emotionally constipated despite the way things have turned out with Matt. She's coasting on a handful of Cs and the rare, glorified B in her classes. She's regularly schooled in modern slang by a fifteen-year-old. That maybe-mold-maybe-something-related-to-the-bubonic-plague spot in her apartment has yet to be dealt with because she'd rather face down a gaggle of gang members than ring up her super.

None of that has changed, but there have been some interesting additions in the last few months, the most startling of which is that she genuinely thought she could go till the end of the year without Hell's Kitchen hosting an impromptu Harry Potter LARPing session.

Why she thought her good luck would hold out for longer than a month at the most, she couldn't say. She's probably high on the euphoria brought on by her relationship with Matt, and also distracted by the visceral need not to fuck things up in that department. She might deserve a pass; frankly, she doesn't know, and it's a struggle to bring herself to care, especially when – regardless of how she got there – the outcome is her opening the door to her apartment, expecting Matt, and getting another fucking wizard instead.

What a downgrade.

Michaela glances over her shoulder, as if by some miracle this guy isn't here to see her specifically, and is in fact looking for the madman who's been squatting in the nonexistent hiding places in her apartment. But no such luck, she's all by herself in here, just like usual. No squatter to speak of, which means no one else to deal with the severely frowning cosplayer now standing in her doorway. Fantastic.

Huffing out a breath, she crosses her arms and leans her weight against the door frame. Normally, wizard = sparks flying, but Michaela is not here for this today, and anyway, dude hasn't so much as conjured up a flicker of the telltale magical bracelets, so. Call her optimistic, but she's not angling for a to-the-death duel right at this moment and would like to avoid one if at all possible.

"Can I help you?" she asks, stilted, squinting at him and all his green robes and general air of mystery. "Just FYI, if you're here to kill me, or otherwise inflict traumatic harm, my super lethal boyfriend should be here any second, and while I'm not the most capable hero on the block, he's another story entirely."

The man smiles, teeth bright against his dark skin, and it doesn't exactly soften any of his abrasive edges, but it does convince her that he's probably not planning on ripping out her entrails just yet. What can she say? It's a nice smile – not nearly as psychotic as The Hunger Games wannabe's.

"There's no killing on my agenda today" – which isn't at all reassuring, does he think that's reassuring? – "so be at ease, Ms. King."

Her shoulders slump. "Aw, fuck, why do you know my name?"

He raises both hands, placating. She catches the glint of something shiny and gold around his wrists, peeking out from under the hems of his sleeves – bracers, maybe? Not cuffs, not bracelets. But bracers, of all things? Well, she supposes it would go quite nicely with the rest of his get-up. "I've not learned it for any nefarious reason. It's only that you happen to be the one who's come up against Cato time and time again, and I need what information you might have about him."

"Cato?" Michaela blinks, then blinks again for good measure. She has to resist the urge to pull a cartoony move like sticking her finger in her ear to check for any blockages and only just manages it. "You're after Cato? Now? It's been months, where the fuck have you been all this time?"