Blackout | Matt Murdock

chapter nineteen | michaela's home for wayward not-mutants

Michaela meets her fourth Inhuman (that she knows for sure) on a random Thursday in November, during the aftermath of a chance encounter with another enhanced individual.

She's splayed out, half in the street and half on the sidewalk, one lens of her goggles cracked, a leg half-drawn towards her chest, the other ragdoll-like and effectively useless. Matt's – somewhere else. Fighting the good fight still, probably. The enhanced individual made copies of themselves and frankly Michaela couldn't keep track of who the original was after about five minutes of fighting. Matt could, because he's Matt and there was something unique about the heartbeat or the breathing pattern of the guy, or something else stupidly specific that Michaela would never have picked up on had she been by herself.

She really hit the jackpot with Matt, Christ.

Michaela manages to keep the groaning to a minimum as she rolls herself onto her stomach. She's not too heavily injured, from what she can tell; scrapes and bruises, mostly, and a headache from when one of the doubles clocked her from behind before she could throw out any electricity. The busted lens is from hitting the ground and cracking the plastic on the edge of the sidewalk. Better that than her face, although replacing them is going to be a pain. And Matt still can't convince his guy to take on another super-suit-seeking client.

There's SHIELD, probably, but uh, nope. Not happening. Even if Michaela kind of wants to see how Lincoln's been doing...

Not the point right now, she reminds herself, getting her legs under her so she can push herself upright.

And then she blinks, confused, because that looks an awful lot like a hand hovering in front of her face, except Matt's definitely not back yet. And this hand is on the smaller side, and also – not white. Or gloved, for that matter. Huh. Michaela tips her head back, ignoring the throbbing at the back of her skull, squinting against the glare of the overhead streetlights.

"The hell?" Michaela blurts out. "I know you!"

The kid – and they're a kid, alright, somewhere around Peter's age, which isn't hard to tell even with their features thrown into shadow and made indistinct – practically beams at the admission, their smile just about the brightest thing Michaela's ever seen. They crouch down so that they're closer to eye-level with Michaela, tucking both hands into the pockets of their offensively-yellow bomber jacket.

"You remember! That's super neat, I wasn't expecting that. We were both totally out of it at the hospital—"

"They had us on the good drugs," Michaela agrees, sort of wishing she had access to them right about now. The headache's nothing serious – Blackout's had more than one concussion, she's like an expert on it now – but it's distracting and making her feel mildly nauseated with the way her neck is craned back to look at this kid. Who she does remember from the hospital, right after they'd been swept off the street and tagged-and-bagged following the Terrigen Mist attack.

She squints harder.

They were roommates for about a day or two. Didn't talk much if at all, though Michaela recalls that they were both ragging on the doctors, annoyed they weren't allowed to leave until they'd been poked and prodded and stuck with ten thousand needles. Michaela doesn't have a name, but that smile is pretty recognizable.

"I'm Bailey!" the kid says, sticking their hand out again. For shaking, Michaela guesses, which is. Unnecessary, honestly, but polite. So that deserves some brownie points. "Bailey Flores. You don't gotta give me your real name, 'cause you're a hero and all, gotta protect that secret identity."