Blackout | Matt Murdock

chapter twenty-three | every iteration of the accords is terrible

One Month Later

Michaela would like to say that things wind down after the absolute clusterfuck that was Cato and Mordo going full Mortal Kombat in the middle of Hell's Kitchen. She'd like to say that the worst thing any of them has to face is Peter's ever-growing list of homework assignments, which Michaela insists on helping him with despite the fact that she's netting mostly C's herself (Matt is, obviously, a much more effective tutor, and so is Jessica when she's in the mood to contribute something other than snarky commentary on the state of America's shitty school system; she's an English major at heart, Michaela would stake her nonexistent fortune on it). She'd like to say that her biggest disappoint these days is the fact that she one hundred percent did lose her job at Cody's, which – let's be real, that was a long time coming, and more than anything she's grateful Cody kept her on as long as he did.

And she can say that. For about a month.

It was a good month, at least. That's gotta count for something in these trying times.

_______________________________

"Why am I taking this class again?"

"Because it's a graduation requirement and you're hoping to graduate in the near future," Matt says without even lifting his head. He's on the couch, curled up against the armrest and scanning through the files Foggy dropped off a few hours ago, and Michaela's on the verge of demanding they switch tasks for like, twenty minutes, except she can't fucking read braille and Matt's said before that he's no longer offering his services when it comes to college-level algebra.

It's valid not only because algebra might as well be actual literal hell in numerical form, but also because Michaela is a bitch of a student when it comes to things she doesn't like, and nothing tops that list like math.

She huffs out a breath, frustrated with herself and her piss-poor decision making skills (she could've taken critical thinking instead of this, it would've fulfilled the requirement just fine, but Past Michaela apparently saw thinking and assumed her incredibly busy schedule wouldn't be able to accommodate the extra brain power). Her pencil taps against the countertop, quick and arhythmic, taptaptaptaptap. The numbers on her laptop screen make about as much sense now as they did an hour ago when she sat down to get this done. For fuck's sake, why is the vigilante aspect of her life somehow not the most stressful thing she has going on right now?

Speaking of that, though, her phone buzzes where it's tucked away in her hoodie pocket, and she'd ignore it, usually, but that's – that's the buzz. The Bad New Buzz, which is a term Peter coined when they were on patrol together a while back that Michaela loves. About as much as she hates the cold knot of dread that twists around her guts just from hearing it. Feeling it, fuck, whichever makes the most sense.

Michaela doesn't have to look over her shoulder to know Matt's put aside his case files, that he's sitting up and grabbing his phone from where he tossed it onto the coffee table. He'd let the text-to-voice function play it for him, but since Michaela's here he only pockets it and gets up to stand at her shoulder while she clicks into the news site that's pretty much a permanent fixture in her tabs.

She – god, she really has stopped going into things with expectations, they're a hindrance she doesn't need, but somehow, somehow, what she sees when the Emergency News Alert starts playing defies quite literally any expectation that could have ever occurred to her.

"Is that—" She can't finish the question. This isn't real, this is some alternate realty she's dropped into without explanation or memory of it having happened. Right? Michaela blinks, then blinks again, slumping back until she's leaning into Matt. His hands smooth over her shoulders, gripping lightly, grounding her in the moment. "He's not—he's not that—okay, it's Stark and he's been certifiable since like the early 2000s but this is—"