Blackout | Matt Murdock

chapter twenty-five | how to become fugitives of the law: a step-by-step guide

          She doesn't die from the gunshot wound, which is a plus, but she also doesn't get that phone call, which – not so great, really. She's not sure who she'd call if she had the option (with a clearer head she's even less interested in contacting Matt, even though she's making herself sick over the fact that the last thing she sent to him was that text, right before she caught up with Peter) but she'd have liked the option, at least.

They confiscate her phone – just the one, she hadn't had the burner phone on her since she had Peter and Matt's actual numbers on her actual phone – and stow her in one of their interrogation rooms after she's treated and deemed relatively healthy (or, in more specific terms, they figure she won't keel over in the next few hours, so she's good enough to get put through the verbal wringer). She's plastic-cuffed to the table, with an additional cuff around her ankle that's anchored to the floor, and she's been staring at the pock-marked ceiling for the last – god, she wishes she had a watch, her internal clock is shit – probably half hour, forty-five minutes?

Michaela knows jack-shit about police procedures, aside from the heavily embellished ones on like, Law & Order or whatever, but this seems pretty stereotypical to her. Leaving her to sweat in a room by herself, just so they can swoop in once she's shown signs of cracking? Maybe she's misjudged day-time television and gritty detective novels all these years – maybe they actually got something right. Who would've guessed, huh?

She wonders idly why the ceiling is as marked up as it is. Do suspects get that rowdy when they're in here? Does shit get thrown and scuff up the walls and the ceiling and do the police just. Ignore it, every time they come in here? Yeah, she could ignore it, but that's mostly because her fucking sieve of a brain forgets about things before she has a chance to deal with them, unless they're like. Life threatening. And even then it's a toss up half the time.

Fuck, this tactic isn't that bad, she's well on her way to driving herself insane and it hasn't even been a full hour yet.

The only bright spot in all this is that she's so far beyond her initial panic that she's – kinda numb to everything. No shakes, no too-fast heartbeat, no asthmatic breathing. She's in pain and her head's been pounding since they sat her down on this uncomfortable as fuck metal chair and she doesn't know where Peter is, what they're doing to him, what they're trying to get out of him, and she's worried, of course she is, but it's. Almost like it's on the backburner, present but not at the forefront of her thoughts. She can't say she's had this happen before, and she figures, best case scenario, it all comes crashing down on her in the next couple hours and she's a sobbing mess on the floor or sprawled out over this table, but. She'd rather have this numbness than her usual brand of anxiety and nausea, even it's only temporary.

At some point the door opens and in walks a woman in a pants suit. Mid-forties, maybe, minimal makeup, brown eyes and blonde hair she's got pinned up at the back of her head. Her suit's charcoal, the kitten heels black and shiny. Michaela squints at her, trying to gauge her mood, but her expression's carefully neutral. She pulls out the chair opposite Michaela and sits down, laying a thick manilla folder on the table in front of her.

"Michaela, is it? Michaela King?" The woman flips open the folder and glances down at it, looking up through her lashes at Michaela as she adds, "Or do you prefer Blackout?"

Michaela sighs and slumps in her chair, the chain of her cuffs rattling against the table. Clink-clink-clink. They're gonna go through this song and dance after all. She'd been sort of hoping that her status as a vigilante meant they wouldn't have to confirm she's a vigilante. The light show had to give her away, there's no other New York-based hero that regularly emits sparks from their fucking body. Thor doesn't count, he's from Asgard, for fuck's sake, and it's not like she could pass for him anyway.