MARVEL KNIGHTS

Chapter 1: All the King's Men

Two men were standing in an overcrowded airport hall. One of them looked like a giant dumpling: immensely fat, bald, double-chinned Caucasian male wearing an expensive-looking grey triple suit. His hands with sausage-like fingers were lying on a thick wooden dark cane with a diamond on top of it. His cufflinks, looking like pieces of cubism, were glittering in the sunlight, shining through a glass roof of the airport. The second man was rather tall, but compared to the first one looked like a toothpick broken in half: a lean, handsome lad, also in a suit, but a black one, with gingery-blond hair. He was wearing a pair of opaque red spectacles. In white light of the afternoon sun they looked like they were covered in blood. He too had a cane: it was more than three feet long, crimson, like the spectacle lenses.
The airport was seething. People gathered around the info board looking for their flights, loaded with bags, suitcases & bag packs stood in lines for registration, lied on hard, metal, scalding chairs, meeting their friends, relatives, colleagues and loved-ones. These two men were no exception.
— You know you didn't have to come with me all this way, Matthew, — said the bald man with slight vexation. He absent-mindedly played with his cufflinks, staring into the surrounding crowd with empty, unseeing eyes.
— You are well aware that such freedom badly affects your intentions, Wilson, — said the man named Matthew. — And we don't want this, do we? Especially before the M-day.
— I've got no objection to this, counsellor, — Wilson sighed. — It is ironic how the name of a mutant-genocide day became synonymous with any big event that lies ahead, don't you think?
— An interesting observation, I admit, — Matthew leaned his head as a sign of agreement. — I wonder what philologists have to say about it.
— Maybe it's because people fear unexpected thing like this to ruin a long anticipated moment? — suggested Wilson hesitantly.
— More like afraid of seeing a top of an iceberg that has been under for a long time, — said Matthew thoughtfully.
— Neat metaphor. You sound more like a writer than a lawyer.
Matthew chuckled.
— Well, Hell's Kitchen isn't exactly the neighbourhood that brings up novelists.
— Again, no objection.
For a while they stood silently like two rocks in a raging ocean. Then Wilson spoke again:
— How do you manage to endure such a cacophony with your hearing?
Matthew raised his eyebrows, pondering the question.
— It was painful at first. Before I learned to concentrate and shut out the rest. Couldn't take my hands off my ears.
— How did you learn? — Wilson was now looking at his companion attentively.
— An old martial arts master taught me. He was blind too. He made me start taking advantage of my disability. Told it was a blessing, not a curse.
— Why didn't you tell me that before?
— You never asked. Plus, we weren't exactly on speaking terms before, remember?
Wilson frowned. His eyes were now studying the jewel on his cane as if it was a prophecy sphere.
— We all have something to be ashamed of.
— Well, this is the part that I have no objection to, — said Matthew highlighting the word "I".
Matthew Murdock, a lawyer from a prestigious law firm "Nelson & Murdock", could indeed hear much more than a regular person. If an average John Doe walked into an airport hall, all he'd hear would be an intangible, but loud chattering of people passing by, the sound of many rolling wheels of hundreds of suitcases and occasional announcements. But Matthew wasn't an average John Doe. He could not only hear what people are twittering with each other about, but also how each of their hearts is beating. He could hear a watch ticking from a seventy feet distance, a bird landing on a glass roof all the way above him, someone's dress fabric rustling. If he wanted, he'd even hear liquor bottles tickling in a Duty Free shop. His ears were perfect sonars.
But it's not only hearing that was special about him. His smell, taste and touch were heightened as well. Right now he could feel the sweat of passenger crowds, smell leather purses, pills taken beforehand to prevent motion sickness. He could taste mint in gums bought to avoid stuffed up ears. Metal of zippers. Lipstick. His skin was sensitive not only to the heat of the July sun, but also to the heat of the people passing by. And behind all of this was a story that Matthew Murdock could read effortlessly.
At last he noticed what he was searching for. A smell of an unobtrusive, but tempting perfume that was unique for a woman they both were waiting for.
— They're coming. Will be here in a minute, — said Matthew with a confidence of a lawyer defending an innocent client.
— At long last. There are better places to be than Newark, — answered Wilson.
The woman coming down the escalator was a charming brown-haired lady with one white braid. In one hand she held a white leather bag. With her other hand she held a plump little boy, approximately four years old, brown-haired like the woman herself, dressed in black shorts and a purple polo shirt. He was clinging to her with both arms, afraid to get lost in the crowd, but once he saw Wilson, he ran to him, cheering.
— Daddy! — cried the boy as Wilson raised him up.
— Look who's back from Japan! — said Wilson beaming. — How did you like Kyoto?
— It was weird, — said the boy, — but I liked the houses!
— Good for...
— And the samurais! They were sick!
The bald man frowned confused.
— He means the armours, Wilson, — explained the woman smiling, — couldn't get him out of the museum for three hours.
— I see. When you grow up a bit, we'll give you one for your birthday, — proclaimed Wilson.
— You will?! — the boy was delighted.
— We will? — asked the woman with a judgemental look.
— I want to be a red demon samurai! — the boy carried on.
Wilson raised an eyebrow at his wife.
— Where did he get THAT?
— Apparently one of the flight attendants told him some silly stories when I wasn't looking — the woman shrugged & turned to the lawyer. — Matthew. Pleasure to see you again.
The man in red glasses smiled.
— The pleasure is all mine, Vanessa. How was the trip?
— Exhausting, — Vanessa shook her head. — One of those vacations after which you need another vacation. At least Richard is happy, — she gave the boy a heart-warming look.
— You look like a red demon, Mr. Mudrock, — suddenly blurted out the boy.
— Richard! What did I tell you?! You must greet a person before addressing them! — cried Vanessa.
— It's fine, the boy's just excited, — said Matthew arbitrarily. — Are we ready to go?
— I suppose so, yeah, — Vanessa looked around, glancing at two men in black with suitcases standing silently behind her holding the suitcases.
— Very well, then. Let's go, I still have a meeting with Rand at four, and the road doesn't look promising, — said Wilson.
They all went to the exit, when Matthew was suddenly stopped by a sound. A very familiar sound. A sound that brought back memories: thin, gently clanking bracelets, elite wine, velvet high-heeled Garavanies...
— Matthew, is something wrong? — asked Vanessa.
He startled and listened again. The sound was gone.
— No, nothing. Just got distracted. Come on, let's not make a mayor-to-be wait, — said Matthew sarcastically.
— Oh, yeah! How's the campaign going? — asked Vanessa eagerly.
— Well, most of the work is done, the expected numbers are high, but Roley is a decent opponent...
Matthew wasn't listening. His thoughts wandered far away, to the woman he once loved. To Elektra.