Unknownfate
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Chapter 90
🕑 Added 2025-04-07 15:51:45 +0000 UTC(got another chapter coming later, just need to edit)
We became something of a legend that night.
Not the sort born from prophecy or thrones, but the kind whispered by terrified lowlifes on the street. “There’s a girl in red,” they’d say. “Jumps down from the roof like a hammer from the sky.” “She laughs when she hits you.”
Mordred called it fun. I called it justice.
We moved from rooftop to rooftop, dropping in on drug deals, muggings, gang disputes, and one very unfortunate attempt at grand theft auto.
Though Mordred did end up smashing the would-be car thieves into the car, which left it trashed. And all she did was sheepishly giggle as I called her out on it.
She was a wild spirit, and she had been unleashed in Hell’s Kitchen.
Each time we struck fast, hard, and without mercy. I kept my presence subtle. I rarely acted myself, mostly just following Mordred around, appearing to others like some kind of handler.
And I couldn’t blame them.
After all, I was wearing a sleek black suit, all I needed were some sunglasses and I would look like some kind of secret agent.
Mordred, on the other hand, fought like a thunderclap. She shouted, laughed, roared her way through every scuffle, fists swinging, feet stomping, treating every alleyway like a battlefield.
“You know,” she said, as she ruthlessly smashed in the skull of a drug dealer after finishing interrogating him. “It’s kinda starting to get boring, they don’t fight back at all.”
They’re not warriors,” I replied calmly, watching the man slump onto the ground, a pool of blood spreading around his head. “They’re cowards with guns and bravado. Not one of them expected retribution to fall from the sky tonight.”
Mordred cracked her knuckles, letting out an annoyed breath. “Tch. Then maybe they shouldn’t have made such easy targets. I need at least one with a spine.”
“You’re not here to be entertained,” I reminded her, stepping over the scattered remnants of drug packets and bills. “We are here to find The Hand.”
She rolled her eyes. “Well, I’m trying, but it's not easy.”
There was a crash in the distance—glass breaking, followed by shouting. Mordred’s head snapped toward it before I could even speak. She was already moving, wall-jumping up to the roof, and then took off across the rooftops.
“Rest in peace,” I muttered, offering a small prayer for whoever was causing trouble, and leaped after her.
We landed in a tight alley just as two men with bats were dragging a half-conscious man behind a dumpster. Mordred didn’t wait for context. She didn’t ask names or motives. She simply shouted, “HEY ASSHOLES!” and then launched herself like a missile.
The first man barely had time to turn before Mordred’s fist connected with his jaw. His feet left the ground.
The second took a swing—too slow. She ducked under it, grabbed his wrist, and spun, throwing him hard into the dumpster with a metallic crash that echoed down the block.
“See?” Mordred said brightly, turning back to me. “That one actually tried.”
The half-conscious man on the ground groaned in pain, coughing, but still breathing.
I moved past Mordred and crouched beside the man, one knee on the cold concrete. From the looks of him, he didn’t seem like an innocent bystander, more like a rival.
He blinked up at me, trying to focus, then flinched as Mordred loomed into view over my shoulder.
“Start talking,” she growled, crouching low, her fists still bloody. “Why were those guys after you? Who do you work for?”
“I… I don’t work for no one,” the man rasped, coughing. “They—they just grabbed me. I’m a runner, alright? I just move stuff around for a few people.”
“What kind of stuff?” I asked, narrowing my eyes.
He hesitated, eyes darting to Mordred’s impatient glare.
“Answer,” she snapped, her tone like snapping steel.
“Money. Sometimes packages. No names,” he wheezed. “But lately… it’s been weird. Quiet. Everyone’s been on edge. Like they’re scared of something.”
That caught my interest.
“Scared of what?” I asked.
He swallowed. “They will kill me if I talk.”
“Well, we will kill you if you don’t, so talk now!” Mordred threatened.
He looked fearfully at Mordred, and then at me, as if pleading. Yet, I offered him nothing, letting Mordred put pressure on him.
“Something have been happening lately, the big gangs, they are all involved, and the big boss, is planning something, something big, that’s all I know.” He said, pleading for mercy.
I gave him a long, quiet look. “Who’s the big boss?” I asked.
“I don’t know his name,” the man said quickly. “I’m just a small guy, working for whoever pays. All I know is that Hell’s Kitchen has a big boss, that’s all. I swear.”
Mordred grabbed the front of his jacket and lifted him partway off the ground, her eyes glowing faintly under the dim light. “You’d better hope that’s enough, rat.”
“Wait! I—I heard something!” he stammered, clawing at her wrist. “Warehouse—down by the docks, west side. Meatpacking district. Red doors, no signs. Always quiet, but people go in and don’t come out. That’s all I know, I swear!”
She held him there a moment longer, then let him drop with a grunt.
“Not bad,” she muttered, cracking her knuckles. “Still want to punch him though.”
“He will die,” I simply said as I stood back up.
“Well, no significant loss, is it? He is just another lowlife.” Mordred scuffed.
“I can’t say I disagree with you, but I feel that our guest might not agree.” I said as I slightly looked up towards the roof of the building behind us.
There was a pause.
Then, from the shadows above, a voice answered, calm but firm.
“Indeed. I wouldn’t let you kill him. He might be a criminal—but he doesn’t deserve death.”
Mordred tensed, turning on her heel and looking up with narrowed eyes. “Who the hell—?”
A figure dropped down, landing with the practiced silence of someone who had done this a thousand times. Red suit. Horned mask. The billy clubs on his belt swayed slightly as he straightened.
“I’ve been following the trail,” the man said, voice steady, quiet—almost gentle. “Broken bones. Crushed skulls. Dozens of men, brutally beaten to death across Hell’s Kitchen. And it led me here.”
Mordred squared her stance, clearly unimpressed. “And who are you? Their union rep?”
He didn’t flinch. “They’re criminals. But even criminals have rights. You don’t get to decide who lives or dies.”
Mordred took a step forward. “I’m pretty sure I do, actually.”
I raised a hand, and she stopped—barely.
“You’re Daredevil,” I said. “The Devil of Hell’s Kitchen.”
He tilted his head slightly in acknowledgment, still keeping a cautious distance. His attention shifted between the two of us, eyes hidden, but I could sense his focus. He was reading us, listening. Measuring everything.
“You’re not with the gangs,” he said at last. “But you’re not exactly heroes either. Who are you? And what are you doing in my part of the city?”
Even though he was blind, I could feel his phantom gaze on me, so I met his gaze evenly.
“We’re here for The Hand,” I said simply.
That got his full attention. His jaw tensed. Beneath the calm exterior, I could feel the shift—his stance sharpened, his hands subtly repositioned, ready for a fight or flight.
“You’re hunting them?” he asked, voice lower now. Cautious. Curious.
I took a moment, trying to figure out what to say. “I heard rumors of them, of what they can do, and I want answers, so yes, we are hunting them.”
Daredevil’s lips pressed into a thin line. “And what will you do once you meet them? I would rather not trade one evil for another, and you two… have saved some people, but left bodies in your wake.”
“Hey!” Mordred spoke up angrily. “You don’t get to interrogate us like this, tell us what you know, or I will beat it out of you.”
Daredevil’s stance shifted in an instant.
“I don’t answer to threats,” he said coldly.
And then he moved.
Mordred was fast. Daredevil wasn’t slow.
He ducked her initial punch—an arcing right hook that could’ve shattered a concrete wall—and flowed beneath it like water, tapping her wrist mid-swing to redirect her balance. His baton snapped out and cracked against her ribs. Not hard enough to break, but enough to sting.
Mordred hissed and grinned. “Oooh, you’re fast.”
I just stood back and watched it happen. Mordred had grown tired of people unable to fight back, and while Daredevil was no threat, he could at least last longer than the normal thug we found, at least as long as Mordred didn’t get serious.
She stepped in again, this time feinting low and swinging up with a rising elbow. Daredevil blocked it with his forearm, pivoted, and tried to wrap her arm into a joint lock.
But she didn’t twist out.
She powered through.
There was a sharp snap of motion, and Daredevil was sent skidding backwards across the alley, boots scraping against the concrete as he braced himself with a hand.
“I like you,” Mordred said, cracking her neck. “You might actually give me a workout.”
“I’m not here to spar,” Daredevil muttered, rising. “I’m here to stop more blood from being spilled.”
“Then maybe stop bleeding,” Mordred snapped, lunging again.
“Then maybe stop bleeding,” the girl snarled—and she lunged.
Matt heard it before anything else: the crunch of her boots, the sharp exhale of breath, the rush of displaced air parting around her as she moved. She was fast. Faster than most metas he’d encountered. But speed wasn’t the real threat here.
It was the way she enjoyed it.
He dropped low, twisting just under her strike. Her fist passed overhead with the compressed whump of sheer force—it displaced the air like a bat breaking the sound barrier.
Then came the follow-up. A pivot—her coat rustled—a kick incoming.
He braced. The impact cracked against his forearms like a sledgehammer wrapped in muscle. Pain flared, but he stayed upright, absorbing it. He countered with a quick jab of his baton toward where her diaphragm would be, aiming to knock the wind out of her.
She caught it.
Flat-palmed. Effortless.
He registered the rough texture of her gloves, the faint tremor of muscle tension—controlled, coiled.
“Cute trick,” she said, breathlessly amused.
She pulled.
Matt let it happen, turned with the force, tried to roll into it—but she wasn’t pulling him. She was throwing him.
He slammed into a wall. Brick dust shook loose behind him. The pain was familiar. He catalogued it. Ribs: fine. Spine: bruised. Head: clear. Move.
He adjusted his grip, batons ready.
Her heartbeat was steady. Not racing. She was enjoying this.
She came again—a flurry of strikes, rapid but measured. Her fists were meteors, her footfalls rhythmic and brutal. She was trained, yes, but not by anyone he recognized. This wasn’t dojo precision—it was battlefield instinct, shaped by blood and war.
He blocked. He deflected. He ducked a punch and felt the heat of it miss his jaw by less than an inch.
The girl was chaos incarnate.
But the other woman, older sounding, larger, she hadn’t moved. He could feel her. Still. Quiet. Her heart was beating slowly, her breathing too smooth; she was too calm.
She reminded him of Stick, someone sure of themselves, someone who feared nothing.
He shifted slightly, adjusting his stance between the two of them. This was going sideways fast.
And then the voice came—not loud, but absolute.
“Enough.”
It wasn’t a request. It was a command.
The girl stopped immediately. Not because she was afraid. Because she obeyed.
Matt’s breath came heavy, his arms aching. But he didn’t lower his weapons yet.
“I’m not here to fight you,” the woman said, stepping forward.
Her steps were light, deliberate. He could hear the subtle friction of soft soles against concrete, the whisper of fabric brushing against itself.
“We came for The Hand. Not for you. But if you stand in our way…” she let the sentence hang like a blade suspended above his throat.
Matt exhaled slowly. Every instinct screamed that these two were dangerous.
But if they were telling the truth…
“I don’t trust you,” he said flatly. “But if you’re really hunting the Hand, then we share the same enemy.”
“Finally,” the other muttered, stretching her shoulders with a satisfied sigh. “And here I thought I had to beat the answer out of you.
Matt didn’t reply. He sank into thought.
(End of chapter)
So, a bit of cleaning the streets. I had to make Mordred hold back a lot to let the fight happen, but I’m sure it‘s fine. However, I do feel like I need to find some stronger enemies sooner rather than later. Thor is still a bit away after all.
But yes, we have a superhero team-up! A classic thing in New York, we can’t visit the city and not have that now can we?
