Hello Daredevil Fandom.

Normally I wouldn't post anything until I feel 100% completely totally secure with the canon. But in this case, I hope the fact that I've read over 200 comics since I discovered them two weeks ago is sufficient. For all I know, this story is covered in those hundreds of comics not available on Marvel Unlimited. Maybe it isn't. Maybe I have things out of order.

What I do know, is I have a feel for Matt from the comics, and I wanted to write about him, before the TV show came out.

So here you have it.

I think it will be 4-5 chapters, all posted before 12:01 PST on April 10.

(And Hello CA folks that have an alerts et up for me. I love you and haven't completely abandoned you. I just, um, discovered this guy, and needed to torture him a little.)

I don't know why I went to the chapel. I don't know why I had done anything that I did that week. I'm sure I saved a life, but at what cost?

I didn't want to pray. I didn't want to yell at God. I think I just wanted a comfortable place to sit, away from my house.

I don't need my cane to guide me down the aisle. Even without my heightened senses, I had been there enough to know the place like my own home. But, aside from appearances, the sound of my cane tapping against the old wooden floors creates a symphony that only I could enjoy.

Tap. The cross hangs over the altar.

Tap. The front of the aisle is clear. They must be planning for a funeral.

Tap. Flowers.

Of course, I could smell those from a block away. Calla Lillies.

I didn't want to talk to her, but as I moved closer, I felt calmer. The logical side of my brain had been failing me, so I let my emotions pull me toward her, and took a seat one pew back.

I should at least put the kneeling rail down and try to pray, but I wasn't ready. I simply took in her scent and felt the overwhelming emptiness of the room.

She faced forward as she spoke. "I have no prayers left for the devil, Matthew."

I bowed my head, knowing that she had seen the most recent headlines. I had nothing to say.

"I usually end my daily prayer by praying for Matthew Murdock and this neighborhood's Devil. But not anymore. Today I only pray for Matthew." Without another word, having not even turned toward me, she stood up and walked away.

I considered going to confession, but would only be assigned penance that I had no intention of completing. I would repent in my own ways.

I tapped the cane back down the aisle, barely noticing an older woman's hand reach out to grab my arm. I should have been startled, but I quickly recognized Sister Gwen from the smell of burnt candles that always followed her. Sister Gwen spends a lot of time staring into the flames. Sometimes I wonder how much she lost before turning to the church.

"You need to pay your respects." She said.

I looked toward where she gripped me and could feel the blood pumping through her fingers. She was angry. Maggie had been angry. I've disappointed them all.

I turned toward the altar and crossed myself before walking to the back of the church. Instead of exiting, I went to the small door that few people notice, which opens to a narrow staircase. I took the stairs two at a time, no longer wanting or needing the appearance of the cane. The walls came closer as I got higher, until I reached the landing at the top. Quickly, I pulled off my street clothes, revealing the costume that has become my second skin. I poke my head out the window and use my radar to survey the area. All clear.

This is how I would spend time with God.

...

When I returned to my house, I was feeling more refreshed. The wind in my face and the exhilaration I felt as I traveled around the city in my own most efficient way cleansed my soul in a way I can't easily describe. I stopped in the office, on the lower floor of my house. Foggy had gone home. Good. He needed his rest, too.

I took a shower and let the sounds of the city, my city, lull me to sleep.

...

The first thing that I noticed, when I woke up, was that I felt rested. Late nights, early mornings, and the ability to hear every sneeze for a three block radius doesn't result in a healthy sleep pattern. This morning, I woke before my alarm. The city was quiet.

Too quiet.

I realized that all of the normal morning hustle in Hell's Kitchen was missing. I could hear cars, doors, and people on the street blocks away, but I couldn't hear any of the normal, louder sounds, right outside my window.

I checked my watch as I put it on. It was eight o'clock. Foggy should already be downstairs in our office. But I didn't hear him.

Everything was so quiet.

I was tying my tie when I heard the knock on a door a block away. I pushed the lone sound away, but it became more persistent.

A moment later, I reached to open the door out of my bedroom, and I realized it was shaking.

I put my hand on the door, and realized that it wasn't shaking, it was knocking.

The knocking that I heard a block away was synchronized with the shaking of my door.

Disoriented, I took a deep breath through my nose. I couldn't smell the person on the other side of the door, and this freaked me out. Only the worst of the bad guys could mask their scent.

But the bad guys didn't normally knock, either.

"Matt, This is serious, we're going to be late!"

It sounded as though Foggy was shouting at me from a block away. In case I was wrong, I went ahead and opened my door. At least I could take on the bad guy with a solid night of sleep.

Foggy pushed into the room, talking a mile a minute. He had every right to be upset, though I can't really tell you what it was about, this time. I just knew that he lacked his usual Foggy-smell. I could smell something on him, but it wasn't as strong as normal. He was talking quietly as he gracefully paced.

"Foggy, I'm not hungover or anything. You can talk at a normal level."

"What?" Foggy responded.

"You are tip-toeing around, practically whispering."

"ARGH. What did you get into last night?"

"Sleep. I got a good night's sleep. Must have forgotten to set my alarm."

"Well, you look presentable enough for Judge Richards. Let's get on to court."

I reached for my cane and sunglasses, following behind my friend. But when I stepped out the front door, well, there's no way to describe how I felt, other than "Lost."

Sometimes I describe my "Radar" as something I throw out, as though it's a conscious decision to put a message out, and that there is some sort of wait before the signals bounce back, educating me about the surrounding landscape. But it's more natural and unexplainable than that. I'm totally blind, but usually I can feel the world around me, in live action.

Stepping outside my apartment, I realized that my radar hadn't been functioning at all.

Foggy hadn't been quiet, my ears were failing me. He hadn't lost his signature morning scent, I had lost my bloodhound nose. And now I was standing on the Hell's Kitchen side of a doorway, about to step into New York City completely, totally, and un-enhancedly blind.

I hoped I remembered how to actually rely on my cane.