Author's Note: This story arc takes place before Daredevil #0.

Franklin Nelson desperately needed to take a quick break to process what he had heard. He wasn't quite sure what to make of the story. The bottle of 'Poland Spring' touched his lips, pouring much desired water into his dry mouth. With luck it would also relieve the headache that slowly settled in. The clear bottle was set back onto the table, away from his notes and thought of where to continue. "Let me get this straight, Mister Wiacek. If what you say is true, why come to us and not straight to the FBI? After nearly forty years in the New York mob, why the change in attitude to turn state's evidence?" A quick glance at his notes refreshed his memory of their talk.

"Shit, man, haven't you been watching the news lately?" The Mafioso asked. His black hair and dark complexion - that he worked hard on maintaining - masked his Polish heritage. "People like me have been turnin' up dead all over this fuckin' city. I ain't that stupid to go around flappin' my gums to anybody before I have my assurances that I'll get through this alive," Brandon said as he leaned forward on his kitchen table with he elbows. "I go talkin' to the Feds without you guys backin' me up I ain't comin' back. They'll do whatever they can to know what I do about this city's underground business."

"Which is what you just confessed to me now, right?" Foggy asked. The mobster nodded his head. "You want your rights protected, I get that. That won't stop the FBI from slapping you with the Rico Act. Even if you're just a small player with illegal bookie related crimes and enforcing with no connected murders to you."

Brandon smiled. "That's where you come in. I got dirt on some pretty big fuckin' people that nobody else knows. Shit, stretching back for twenty-years. I give that info to the FBI and you and your partner work out a sweet deal that guarantees I'm sittin' on some beach somewheres, comfortable, with a new identity."

Foggy didn't want to believe a word the mobster had said, but he had to admit the details were just too…well, detailed. "But, isn't this suspicious in some way? You're the low man on the totem pole. Sure, shit tends to roll downhill, but that doesn't explain how you came across knowledge that implicates some pretty powerful people, heads of families and the like with murders, extortion and other crimes that have remained unsolved for years. Stuff like that tends to remain very well hidden in secrecy."

"Part of this deal is to keep my sources secret. I'll handle the responsibility for how good this info is or isn't. I have trust in it." Brandon reached for his cup of coffee, black with two sugars, and took a sip.

The lawyer flipped shut the manila folder that contained his scribbled notes and sat straight in his chair. "I guess I'm still confused on one part, though. Most informants go straight to the authorities first then get a lawyer assigned to them. The FBI would be more than happy to protect you, yet you believe that somehow they won't?"

The mobster smirked. "Who do you think is makin' all the others dead?"

"You're saying that the FBI is behind these gangland assassinations?" The lawyer asked with a hint of disbelief.

"Who else is stupid enough to go stompin' around in the Kingpin's territory, leavin' a pile of bodies lyin' around? They're callin' the fat ass out." Brandon sat up straight. "So, we got us a deal or what?"

Foggy's response died before it formed by the unexpected knocking on the mobster's front door.

"Fuck," Brandon shook his head, "always when I'm in the middle of somethin'. 'Scuse me, probably the paperboy wantin' to collect his money." He pardoned himself from the kitchen.

Foggy leaned further back in his chair, lifting the two front legs off the floor and began rocking slightly. He wondered how he was going to approach his partner with information that would help him, and his alter ego, dismantle another part of the criminal underworld.

The retired mobster sauntered to the front door as he pulled his fat, black leather wallet out of the back pocket of his khakis. Even though he had stopped collecting years ago he was still never short of carrying a couple thousand dollars on his person at any moment. The knocking persisted until Brandon twisted the lock on the doorknob, and slid the deadbolt open. He would never know whom it was standing in the threshold of the door since he gaze never focused passed the black hole at the end of the barrel of a Winchester SX3 pointed right between his eyes.

"Hewwo, Wabbit!"

Brandon's mind barely had a chance to process the absurdity of what he just heard before the awful --

BOOM!

-- that made his world black.

The weapon never wavered. Fire belched from the barrel as the shotgun discharged a powerful blast. Brandon's head exploded like an overfull water balloon that was thrown against a wall. Blood, brain matter and chunks of meaty flesh sprayed like a violent sneeze. Teeth, bone and buckshot ricocheted off solid objects in the room; other parts embedded themselves in softer furniture. The force pushed the mobster's body backward; gravity grabbed hold and yanked him to the floor. Blood pooled from the open, gaping wound onto the carpet.

In the kitchen Foggy jumped, startled by the sudden thunder-like explosion that rung in his ears. The pudgy lawyer lost balance and tumbled backwards in the chair. They both crashed hard with a dull thud. Foggy cursed his clumsiness. Shotgun's head snapped up at the unexpected noise. The mobster should have been alone in the apartment. His fingers tapped at controls woven into his gloves that changed the vision of his goggles from normal visible light to infrared vision. The world changed to overwhelming greens and blues - the still warm body was a mix of reds and oranges. There! On the kitchen floor! A shiver of excitement ran up the assassin's spine. He gleefully cocked the Winchester.

"Well, what do we have here? I spy with my little eye…a dead motherfucker right close by."

{He prowls the rooftops and alleyways at night searching for justice, blind justice: a guardian devil. Matthew Murdock was fifteen years old when he had lost his sight, but he got something back in return. His remaining four senses functioned with superhuman sharpness. He could hear a whisper a block away, but the most amazing of all was a kind of 'radar' sense that enabled him to 'see' with more clarity that those with sight could possibly imagine.

A respected lawyer by day, he stalks the streets by night, the judge and jury of justice, as the vigilante Daredevil, The Man Without Fear! Soon the world will know the truth… That one man can make a difference.}

The city descended into darkness. The wind grew bitter with the coming night, carrying on its invisible currents a freezing cold that cut like a razor's edge through even the thickest fabrics and toughest materials. It bit at the tip of his nose leaving it slightly numb. His lips thinned and cracked, sensitive to the environment around him. The near sub-zero temperature should have wrecked his body, but it only served to sharpen his focus. Moving air flowing around everything, revealing the city to his senses in amazing detail. The effects the weather had on his body could easily be mitigated. Along with his heightened sense came a tremendous tolerance in dealing with the stimuli processed.

Daredevil traversed the rooftops as easily as those below walked on the sidewalk, racing against the whipping wind. There was no telling exactly how much time he had left. Every second counted if he wished to prevent the bloody fate that awaited his friend. Daredevil knew that death constantly waited for them both, though for different reasons. For Matt it was because of his constant flirting with danger as the scarlet vigilante. For Foggy it was because of his loyalty and inability to choose friends with less hazardous hobbies. It should have come long ago, but skill, determination and luck had intervened on their behalf. So, they lived to breathe another day.

An apartment complex rapidly drew closer in front of him. It was tall, twenty stories, and easily housing over a thousand people with roughly 736 - by his estimation - there right now. Daredevil spat in frustration. Trying to filter out all of those heartbeats for the right one would take too many precious minutes than he had. Daredevil's heart nearly dropped through his stomach when a loud explosion thundered from the tower. It sounded like a shotgun. The only fortunate part was the gun blast zeroed his radar sense exactly onto the mobster's apartment and with some moderate concentration he scanned it. There were two heartbeats and he recognized them both.

Foggy's alive! Matt's good fortune could be short lived, however, if Shotgun reached his pudgy partner first and he was still a good hundred yards away. Daredevil pushed his legs harder, demanding more speed from them - that was not about to happen.

"You better watch out, you better not cry --"

BOOM! - the blast narrowly missed taking off the back of the diving lawyer's head. Instead, claiming an innocent box of 'Corn Pops' that sat on a countertop - violently exploding it into a shower of yellow sugary, puffed balls that rained down on to the back of the crouched man.

"You better not pout, I'm telling you why --"

BOOM! - the round kitchen table that Foggy hid under splintered as the buckshot tore through the wood. From his crouched position he peaked up through the hole and saw his attacker look down at him in amusement. Shotgun slightly swayed his broad shoulders as he sung; taunting him by finishing the verse as the Winchester leveled.

"Santa Claus is coming to town."

Shotgun reached with a black-gloved hand and flipped the table over, taking away the only protection the lawyer had. "Now, that was an innocent table and you saw what I did to that."

Foggy would have expected his killer to sound like a typical sociopath - emotionally detached, hollow and cold. However, Shotgun couldn't have looked and sounded happier. It's what freaked Foggy Nelson out more than his impending death…that this asshole was going to enjoy it. His eyes squeezed shut, sweat dripping down, waiting for the moment that his life would flash before him, if it weren't for the dull ache that formed in his left arm distracting his awareness.

He would also miss the sound of his salvation.

CRASH!

A red blur flowed through the shattered window; shards of glass reflected a rainbow of light. Shotgun's head snapped to the noise, too late to see the cause of the racket and too late to see the red baton that slammed onto the top of his trigger hand. The hired gun grunted as he felt the delicate bones crack; the shotgun nearly fell from his weakened grip. J.R. Walker Jr. knew from then who attacked him…even if he weren't now standing in the threshold of the kitchen.

"Get away fro--!" Daredevil's threat was interrupted; forced into instant action by diving away from two conical objects thrown at him. The grenades embedded into the wall, exploding on contact, obliterating the partition and a large part of the doorframe.

Shotgun emerged into the living room through a white cloud of drywall dust, the Winchester clutched in the other hand. He looked mercilessly down at the stunned Daredevil as he stirred, struggling to regain his bearings.

"When you have to fight, fight, don't talk." Shotgun warned.

Daredevil's senses re-aligned just in time to see the Winchester's deadly aim. His reflexes reacted on impulse, propelling his body away like a shot scant seconds before the shotgun's own.

Daredevil dove behind a large couch after being chased through the open living room by the lethal shotgun blasts that reduced cabinets and an antique hutch to splinters - chunks of foam exploded out of giant holes blown into the cushions. The scarlet vigilante needed a few moments' respite, but the couch was rapidly being obliterated. A quick scan of his surroundings told him there wasn't much cover available. He was going to have to rush Shotgun head on if he wished to gain the upper hand. Daredevil knew that he trumped Shotgun in hand-to-hand combat, but as long as the assassin maintained possession of that Winchester he was at a considerable disadvantage.

"C'mon, dirty motherfucker!" Shotgun taunted. "I ain't got all day to play this shit!"

Without needing to sneak a peek, his radar sense granted him a constant 360° view, Daredevil chucked the remaining billy club over his shoulder. The baton ricocheted off the ceiling at an angle that would have taken a mathematician minutes to calculate, and propelled down crashing into Shotgun's goggles. The assassin cursed and paused his attack to rip his shattered lenses off. That was the opening Daredevil needed to strike. He sprung over the couch and was on Shotgun in a heartbeat. Daredevil grabbed the Winchester and fought to tear it out of Shotgun's grip.

Shotgun snarled as they wrestled for the weapon's control. The vigilante's scarlet forehead crushed Shotgun's nose - his eyesight exploded from darkness to a kaleidoscope of color, blood rapidly filled the back of his throat. Daredevil took advantage of the other's shock and tossed the Winchester away. The assassin wouldn't get a chance to recover. His teeth clashed together. His head snapped back violently. He felt something poke sharply into his exposed throat, crushing his windpipe that, combined with the blood, made it nearly impossible to draw breath.

Daredevil dropped to the floor and swept Shotgun's legs out from under him, the assassin crashed down in a dull thud. Daredevil dropped a crimson boot down on Shotgun's chest; the Kevlar vest absorbed the brunt of the impact but it was devastating enough to keep Shotgun down.

The silence that followed the fight was eerie. Foggy should have come out of hiding once the trouble was over. He didn't. Daredevil stretched his senses out, no longer needing them so narrowly focused and what he heard was frightening. Labored, shallow, wheezing breath. Rapid, irregular heartbeat. He could smell the salty sweat. Almost hear the muscles tighten in the chest. Immediately forgetting the assassin Daredevil sprinted into the kitchen where Foggy lay face down on the floor, and leaned over his alter ego's partner. "Foggy! Foggy, can you hear me?"

He got no response.

In the back of his mind he barely registered the banshee wail of the sirens from the street below. He flipped Foggy onto his back as the thundering footsteps that charged down the hallway outside the apartment told him that company was going to be here soon. "Hold on," the vigilante whispered. The next thing he had to do was the last thing he wanted to do.

A black Glock 22 pistol cautiously peaked through the open door into the apartment, followed by the broad frame of Captain Garth Bryce who was careful not to trip over the dead body that blocked the doorway. His coffee colored eyes scanned the destroyed apartment and paused on the other body. Blood bubbled out of the assassin's mouth and nose; his chest struggled to rise.

"Get the medic; we've got a live one here!" Garth ordered, then pointed to two uniforms that followed in behind. "Clear the apartment!"

They nodded and spread out.

Garth could piece together the obvious answer, but somehow it didn't come close to explaining why it looked like a tornado tore through the building. He had to ask anyway. "What the Hell happened?"

"Captain!" an officer called from the kitchen.

Garth rushed in and saw the uniform kneeling over a pudgy man in a suit. The officer looked up at the Captain. "He's having a heart attack!"

Fisk Industries
Manhattan

Sausage-like fingers wrapped themselves around the cold steel bar that bowed in the middle under the considerable stack of weights that sandwiched it. A guttural growl echoed loudly in the otherwise empty weight room as a pair of thick trunk-like arms pushed 650 pounds into the air. A vein bulged in the bald forehead under the strain as muscles the size of boulders flexed bringing the weights down for the thirty-fourth time. The Kingpin growled again as he pushed the bar away from his body that lay on a special reinforced bench, created to support up to a ton and a half; the crime lords considerable 450 pound mass plus the even heavier loads he worked with.

Wilson Fisk's gymnasium was enormous, taking up nearly the entire floor of his skyscraper with an Olympic size pool, weight room, martial arts and sumo training floor, and an area to stretch his mass out to keep him unbelievably nimble, more than anybody his size deserved to be. From the other side of the gym a man in a well-tailored navy blue suit walked in, his footfalls quieted by the padding that lined the floor. He didn't announce his presence as he stood silently next to his boss. The Kingpin will acknowledge that you live when he's ready.

After the fortieth, and last, rep the bar settled on the two stands. Wilson took a minute to breathe and relax before sitting up. His hand reached out to nothing and waited for the man to drop a white towel into the mammoth mitt. "What is it, Wesley?" the Kingpin asked as he wiped the sweat from his head.

"Shotgun was arrested minutes ago after murdering another one of your informants. Mister Wiacek was apparently meeting with Franklin Nelson when Shotgun appeared. Somehow, the police believe, Daredevil intervened and stopped Shotgun before he could finish off the lawyer," the Kingpins personal lawyer reported. "Daredevil fled the scene seconds before their entrance."

"Shotgun?" Fisk asked, rarely surprised. Whoever snuck that crazy psychopath into his city without his knowledge had to have extensive resources. "Who knows about the men I've been funneling information through, and what do they gain by their slaughter?"

Wesley shook his head. "I don't know. But, if that were to become public knowledge it could jeopardize your plans. However, it could be useful to know that there have been some recent inquiries about Sammy Silke. It seems that Ben Urich has taken an interesting in him, asking questions to the police and making phone calls to contacts in Chicago."

The Kingpin's face darkened. "Urich is an intelligent and tenacious reporter. If he's investigating Silke there has to be a reason for it, and I can guarantee that what Mister Urich is digging for won't stay buried for long."

Wesley folded his arms across his chest. "Do you think Ben knows about the 'secret' meeting Silke had?"

Wilson tossed the towel to the ground. "Possibly, but we gain little by reacting to hastily. Time will tell us what we need to know. Let events unfold as needed and we'll act accordingly when necessary."

"Of course, Mister Fisk. Is there anything else you require?"

"No, you may leave." The Kingpin waved him off.

Wesley tipped his head before making his way to the door as Wilson Fisk continued his extensive routine.

Josie's Bar & Grill
Just off South St. by the Brooklyn Bridge

Richard's palm rubbed his tired forehead. It was getting late. Why hadn't he called yet? Richard looked around the filthy bar thinking that tonight could have been easily every other night. He returned his gaze to the 'Irish Car Bomb' on the bar in front of him and debated whether or not he should allow himself to slip further into inebriation. The angels and devils argued over it, until Richard made the decision for them and reached for the glass.

"…fuckin' Shotgun? Are you sure?"

Richard paused and instantly focused on the conversation near him, probably from the table behind.

"Yeah, heard it over the scanner. The Cops think he's the one who's been shootin' alla us up. Heard that Daredevil fuckin' fucked him up big time too. Almost killed the psycho."

"Jesus fuck, dude. I never thought I'd feel grateful to Daredevil, ever, 'bout anything but I was getting scared. I nearly shit my pants when the God damned paperboy knocked on my fuckin' door yesterday! The paperboy! I felt like the biggest fuckin' pussy on the planet."

He couldn't help himself when he slammed his hand down on to the bar, knocking the drink all over the wooden surface. Richard got up from the stool and left the bar, ignoring the looks from the angry men whose laps the 'Car Bomb' spilled on to. None of them dared to make comment or follow Richard out of the bar, though. You'd have to have balls the size of basketballs to throw down with the Kingpins son. If Richard didn't kill you then his father certainly would.

"Huh," one of the conversationalists asked, "wonder the Hell that was for?"

The other shrugged and took a gulp of beer. "Who the fuck cares?"

{Have you ever had one of those moments when you feel completely helpless? You feel like a little child standing in front of a speeding train that's bearing down on you and you're too paralyzed to jump out of the way? I think it's safe to say that's how I feel right now. I don't really know how long I've been sitting here, numb, in this horrifically uncomfortable chair. I think, from the increase of traffic outside and the steady increase of walk-in patients, that I've been here all night, but my mind is too fucking dead to care.

God, I wish this wasn't happening. I hated leaving him behind, but I had to trust that Bryce would react quickly enough. My faith was well placed. Speaking of, I had enough time to swing by the Church to offer up a prayer for my friend. I had hoped it would abate my anger, but it didn't. So where do I focus my rage? On Shotgun? Practically, I already did. The Kingpin? Possibly, but what good would that do? Frankly, what good does it ever do?}

New York University Medical Center
9:30 a.m.

Foggy's stepmother, Anna Nelson, paced around the hospital lobby paying no mind to the eyes of strangers that watched as she muttered a string of barely audible Jewish curses to herself. She had been waiting impatiently for news about her son for what felt like days, but was really hours. The nurses were positive that they were going to have to replace the linoleum that lined the floor if the husky woman kept up her unrelenting pace much longer. Years of seeing the same thing day in and out probably jaded the nurses a little to the worried mothers' plight, even if there were some sympathy inside them.

Sitting quietly in a chair was Matt Murdock, hunched over with his head buried in his palms. He was tired, but anger and desperation kept him awake - anger fueled by the annoying bunching in his hastily thrown on pants that pinched the skin in his groin. The costume underneath had rode up, and Matt didn't feel like groping himself in the middle of the hospital to relieve his irritation.

If that weren't bad enough the constant odor of antiseptic used to keep the Hospital sterile and the Clorox from the mop bucket down the hall swirled around his nose. If he didn't hit the open air soon he was going to become violently nauseous. The fluorescent lights buzzed in his ears, the light pulsated against his skin; the heat they radiated on him raised his temperature far warmer than he was comfortable with. Along with the thundering footfalls from the floors above and below, and the vibrations from the rolling wheels from moving beds and trays added yet another reason why he dreaded coming to these places.

But, there was a far more important reason to stay. In his life Matthew had made promises to see this thing of his out. To not abandon his mission, no matter the cost. He'd be damned if he broke that word now, of all times. Foggy was all he had left.

"Matthew."

The voice snapped Matthew out of his trance. When he focused on the speaker any sense of discomfort disappeared…and increased a thousand fold all at once. It wasn't often that Matthew felt physically imposed by somebody. His radar sense eliminated any air of ego from a person because he knew everything about that person he could in an instant; height, weight, health was an open book and by contrast body language was lost on him, the subtleness of facial expressions was as blank and bare as a sheet of ice. Yet, somehow the 5'6", 115-pound frame of the woman in front of him felt more imposing than what it really was.

"Rosalind," Matthew replied in the same one word introduction. He stood, his grip firm on the walking stick. "You've got a lot of nerve showing up here."

"Don't tell me you're still sore over me firing you both?" Rosalind teased. She had fired her son after an indiscretion he had with a client of theirs when all three were partners of the same firm.

"As I recall, you only fired Foggy. I quit in protest."

Rosalind Sharpe smirked. "Yes, well let's not argue semantics. What's done is done. I heard Franklin was here. I just wanted to quietly come and check on him. I am his mother after all."

It was then that Anna Nelson's attention had been caught. "Bitch!" she spat as she attempted to charge the female lawyer. Matt's arm shot up and held the bulky mother back, but that didn't stop her from throwing verbal jabs. "You abandoned him and Edward! You only pretend to care about Franklin when it's convenient for you or you gain something for it!"

"Really? If I cared so little about him then why is it, you suppose, that he became a lawyer like myself? I don't see him doing…whatever it is you do." The retort cut Anna sharply, maybe more than Rosalind intended knowing that she truly had no influence over Franklin's early career pursuits. Even still she had no intentions on apologizing, further contributing to her well-earned nickname 'The Razor'.

"Enough!" the authority in Matt's voice made Rosalind take a step back in surprise. During the entire time she employed him she'd never heard, nor seen Matt so serious and commanding. "Mrs. Nelson, Rosalind does have a right to be here," Anna looked deflated at Matt's declaration. Rosalind, by contrast smirked with smugness that would be short lived. "Rosalind, sit down and shut up. Stop trying to pick a fight, 'cause frankly, neither of you are entirely important right now!"

Anything the sharp tongue had in reply died before it even left her brain. Accepting her judgment Rosalind lowered into one of the chairs that lined the hallway. Anna Nelson resumed her pacing like nothing had happened and it was quiet again.

Until the double doors that bisected the waiting room from the operating wing pushed open, momentarily altering the air pressure before they swung shut and everything leveled out. It took all of Matt's control to not jump to his feet when the doctor approached the trio, but Anna wasn't hampered by the same restrictions and nearly ran the poor doctor over in her excitement.

"You're Mister Nelson's mother?" the doctor asked, his face darkened slightly when she nodded her head with tears filling her eyes. "Mrs. Nelson, your son's condition has stabilized. He had a twenty-five percent blockage in one of the arteries and a near complete blockage in the other. We had to perform surgery to clear the blockages and insert two stents to keep his arteries open. He's in recovery right now, and is expected to return to his full health. Franklin will have to follow a strict diet and engage in regular exercise to avoid this in the future."

Matt approached Anna and put his hands on her shoulders. "Thank you doctor, how soon can we see him?" he asked.

"Not for another three or four hours I would say. He's still under sedation and it's critical he receives his rest. For now it's for the better that we just wait and see. It's up to Franklin to do the rest." The doctor pushed his hands into the oversized pockets of his white coat and spun away, back through the double doors.

Not in the mood to continue pacing, Matt escorted Foggy's stepmother to a chair to sit. "Are you gonna be okay? I can't sit here anymore. There are things I have to take care of."

Anna wiped at her wet nose with a tissue and nodded. "I think so. Thank you so much for your help, Matthew. You're a good friend to my Franklin."

Matthew flicked his wrist and his walking stick unfolded. "That remains to be seen." He turned and walked away, the walking stick clacking as it swung back and forth coming in constant collision with objects around.

Almost feeling forgotten in the moment Rosalind awkwardly turned to Anna. "Do you want to get a coffee?"

10:45 a.m.

It was one of the better days of the season. The warm sun shone brightly against the city, lightening the mood of many people in the city that took advantage and wore t-shirts. Music blasted from the windows of apartments, and cars thudded with bass so hard that Matthew could feel the vibrations pass through his body from over a hundred yards above the city.

Everything was so light, and good spirited that it couldn't have been any more opposite to how Daredevil felt right now. He had just needed to get out of that hospital room. He couldn't just sit there and 'watch' his best friend struggling for his life. He needed to get away, get high above the city and clear his head. Yet, as Matt swung with minimal effort high above the streets of New York City, he realized that he couldn't get high enough to escape his feelings.

Matt had so many different emotions battling for supremacy in his head. There was this feeling nagging at him that he had somehow failed Foggy, that it was his fault Foggy had a heart attack, and yet he knew for a fact that wasn't true. Foggy had had a heart attack because of years of over indulgence and lack of exercise - granted it's not every day one gets chased around with a shotgun - but still…

Then there was the feeling of sadness that threatened to shut Matt down completely, so that he didn't want to go on. If Foggy were to die, whom would he have then? Matt had lost important people in his life before, in fact, two loves of his life: Elektra Natchios and Karen Page, and even when those losses threatened to destroy Matt forever, he had always had Foggy to lean on for support. If Foggy were to die, whom would he lean on for support? He would have no one.

Then there was this other feeling that was bubbling over inside Matt's head, threatening to defeat the other feelings. Anger. Matt could feel it winning, and he began to seethe with fury. He felt like he just needed to take out all his anger and frustration on someone, it didn't matter whom. He just needed to hit someone, very, very hard in the face. He needed to get rid of all this pent up anger that would definitely destroy him.

Suddenly, something hit Matt's chest with the force of trading punches with the Hulk. Matt cried out and his grip was loosened on his billy club and he began to fall. His ears were ringing and he had a splitting headache and as he fell he tried to will his heartbeat to go back to normal. Matt knew that it was a vibration of some kind that had struck him, but it was ten times more powerful than the thuds of the car stereos he had been hearing.

Matt swung his billy club towards a nearby flagpole and as it caught and wrapped around, Matt silently thanked New York City for its abundance of nearby flagpoles. Matt then swung himself over to land on the outside ledge of the flagpole's building, taking a moment to regain his composure. He then looked down towards the streets to see the nature of the disturbance.

Someone was down on the streets below, sending concussive blasts of energy from his fists, energy that was destroying the police cars and turning the street into rubble near him. The blasts were so loud and violent that Matt's ears were going crazy. The noise had made the picture that his radar vision was giving him of the scene that much easier to visualize.

It then dawned on Matt who this was. He had heard Peter Parker talk about him on many occasions. Apparently this guy was a complete loser who Peter rarely wasted more than five minutes on when he was fighting as Spider-Man. Of course, what with this guy's particular power, Matt would have to spend a bit more than five minutes on him. But if what Peter had said was true, then he shouldn't be too hard to defeat.

Matt felt the rage inside of him and he balled up his fists and grimaced. His anger was getting the better of him and he knew he had to release it now, for better or for worse. Matt leapt off the building ledge and plummeted towards the street below, getting ready to execute a mid air somersault.

The Shocker wouldn't know what hit him.

"Haaahhahaha! Fuck you, cops! What the hell do you think you can do against me?"

The Shocker laughed maniacally as he fired another concussive blast from his wrist weapons. He watched it blast into the side of a cop car, blowing it all to hell. He loved this. No Spider-Man in sight, money in the bag, and he even got to blow the crap out of some cops. Life was good.

Suddenly, he cried out in shock and pain as something collided with his right temple and sent him crashing to the hard concrete ground.

"Fuck! What the hell?"

The Shocker rubbed his temple and looked up to see a guy in a blood red outfit, with little devil horns on the mask, land on the ground perfectly in front of him. The guy picked up his red club from the ground and spun it in his hands. He balled up his fists and gritted his teeth. Shocker recognized this guy. He'd heard stories.

"Daredevil, right?"

Daredevil didn't answer.

"Yeah, well, that's cool…" said Shocker as he struggled to his feet, "at least you're not Spider-Man."

Daredevil called out to the police and the bystanders. "Get out of here, everyone! Now!"

One of the cops swallowed hard, and gingerly stepped forward. "Uhhh, Mr. Daredevil, uh, sir…"

Daredevil shot a red-eyed glare at the cop. "I said get out of here! I'll handle this!"

The Shocker took the opportunity while Daredevil was distracted and fired a blast. Daredevil managed to leap out of the way, and the blast hit another cop car. Shocker watched Daredevil grimace and hold his ears in pain. Shocker smiled underneath his yellow mask.

"So you don't like loud noises, eh, devil boy? Great. You might be even easier to defeat than Spider-Man."

Quick as a flash, Daredevil once again launched the billy club towards Shocker, and it struck him on the collarbone before he could react.

"Dammit!" cried Shocker as he hit the floor. He tried to move but couldn't. "You broke my fuckin' collarbone!"

Daredevil shook the ringing out of his ears and stumbled forward towards Shocker, who fired a series of blasts from his good arm. Daredevil managed to dodge each and was on top of Shocker in a second. Shocker could see that Daredevil's ears were hurting, but that wasn't going to stop him.

Daredevil drove his right fist down and smashed Shocker's nose. Shocker screamed in agony and Daredevil wrenched Shocker's arm, aggravating the already broken collarbone.

"You think you can just blow up police cars and endanger innocent people in my city, with no consequences? Spider-Man should have done this years ago."

Daredevil began to pummel Shocker's face and chest with his fists, before lifting Shockers face close to his. "I will not tolerate scum like you in my city! It's dirt like you that kill and hurt people I love! Damn you!"

Daredevil slammed Shocker's head down onto the concrete, and was about to continue, when he smelled, and saw the heat from the pool of blood begin to form around Shocker's head. The fallen villain groaned in pain. A wave of fear swept over Matt. He had nearly killed this man.

Matt slowly backed away from Shocker's broken and battered body, and brought his trembling hands up towards his face. He didn't need vision to know that they were dripping with blood.

"Oh my God…no…"

Between gargles of blood, the Shocker managed to say something, "Now I know…Jameson was right…murderer…" Herman spat, mocking Daredevil before he trailed off and slipped into unconsciousness.

Daredevil backed away further and tried to regain control of himself. How many times has he let this happen to himself? His temper always gets the better of him and he nearly…he nearly killed a man!

BLAM!

The gunshot rang out and startled Daredevil as it whizzed past his right arm.

"That was a warning shot!" called a policeman. "You're under arrest Daredevil!"

Daredevil began to shake his head and move slowly away from the Shocker. "…no…no…I didn't…I'm not…"

Daredevil launched his billy club towards the side of a building and it caught. He let the cable lift him into the air. In an instant he had reached the ledge of the building. More gunshots rang out close to him, and he could feel the air move as one skimmed his forehead.

"Bring him down! Bring him down!"

Daredevil fired the billy club up and it latched onto the rooftop of the building, and he was pulled up and away from the crime scene. He made it onto the roof miraculously unharmed.

What had he done?