Matt supposed it was good luck that only one of the things hit him, considering that they'd just fired an entire barrage at him. He wondered vaguely how they'd done it, packed a shotgun or maybe even a small cannon with them and aimed in his general direction. He'd heard them coming, louder and slower than bullets, and flipped away. Although most of them whizzed by, one of the outermost of the swarm found a target, and there was a sharp, stinging pain in his right buttock. It felt as though somebody had jabbed him with a thick needle. Tranquiliser dart, his mind had shouted, and instinctively, he reached behind, pulled it free, and threw it towards the person next to him. There was a high, pained scream – he must have got the man in the eye. Meanwhile, the shooter had fired again, but Matt was already on the run and the next missiles went in the opposite direction. He didn't think the thing – it hadn't been a dart - had gone deep enough to have an immediate effect, but they obviously wanted him alive, and he wasn't going to make it easy for them.

He sped around the nearest corner, around the next one after that, and vaulted up the wall of the next building. His body was starting to feel slower, but he forced it to keep going, because at least one of the men was following as best he could. It had been a trap, a good one, but Matt was going to escape. He had to escape. He vauled to the next rooftop and fell hard on his knees. His head was starting to swim. They'd pretended to be male rapists, but then, instead of running to safety, the so-called victim had swung at him with a piece of wood, slamming it into his side. There'd been something sharp sticking out of the wood – nails? scalpel blades? – and to his great surprise, they'd gone through his suit and deep enough into his flesh to take what felt like a good chunk out with them. He could feel the wound throbbing even louder than his heartbeat. Now Matt pulled himself upright again, angry both at himself for falling for the trap, and for whoever had put the men up to it. Fisk, he thought vaguely, or someone connected to Fisk.

He had to keep going, lose the man behind him. He jumped to the next roof and ran to the fire escape, slithering down to street level. He couldn't afford any more jumps, not if he didn't want to end up a wet smear on the ground. He was already on the ground. He was already a wet smear. He was … drifting. He couldn't afford to drift. He couldn't give in. Couldn't give up. The man was still behind him somewhere. Something brushed his shoulder and he lashed out, only for his fist to come into contact with brick. Owww … shit. He'd hit a wall. I've hit the wall, he said to himself, and first he wanted to laugh, but then he wanted to cry. He wanted to flop down at the bottom of the wall, cradle his hand, and close his eyes.

Matt kept moving, searching for the alleys away from the main streets. He could feel the pinprick in his buttock with every step, a twinge and a burning alternating with the much greater pain of the wound in his side. Eventually, he became aware of a group of people ahead, some of them smoking, and turned to go back the way he'd come, to find a different route. Behind him, he heard an adolescent voice call out, "Hey, was that the Daredevil?" He forced himself to move faster as he listened to a moment of shocked silence, then a receding chorus of jeers and laughter. Were they laughing at the boy who thought he'd seen Matt? Or were they laughing at Matt himself, how he wounded he looked, how he was bent over and limping? Worse, would their laughter bring the men who'd tried to ambush him? He tried to expand his senses to see if anyone was following – and stumbled, falling to one knee over something small that yelped, then growled, then sank his little teeth into Matt's shin.

It didn't exactly hurt, not through the suit, but Matt was having a hard enough time moving his own body, he didn't want even a small dog clinging to his leg and weighing him down. He only meant to shoo it away with his foot, but misjudged the strength of his swipe and felt the dog go flying, propelled by the toe of his boot; it landed some feet away with a crash and another yelp. Aww, shit, he'd kicked it. He'd kicked a dog!

Somewhere behind Matt, a door opened and a woman called out. Even if Matt didn't understand the words, the dog did, and trotted, whining, towards the open door. Matt heaved himseslf back upright and loped in the opposite direction. A dog. He'd never tussled with a dog before; he supposed he was lucky. Some dogs could rip your throat out. Big, mean dogs, the size of seeing-eye dogs, just differently trained. He didn't think this dog had even punctured his suit, though. And he'd kicked it! But even if it had done more than massage his shin with its teeth, the poor doggy obviously lived indoors and was probably healthy. Matt wouldn't have to ask Claire for a … that kind of shot they gave you if you were bitten by a wild animal? Started with an "r?" Or was it an "m"? A mad dog shot? Mad dog. Maddog. Maddock. Murdock. Nelson and Maddog. Nelson and Rabies. That was it. A rabies shot. A Murdock shot. A Nelson shot.

Actually, a Nelson shot sounded like a good thing. He could use a Nelson shot right about now. He should call Claire and ask her to give him one. He reached for his phone with painful, stiff fingers. No, wait. He didn't like drugs. But a Nelson shot wasn't drugs, was it? Even if it made him feel good? Just to be safe, maybe half? He should ask Claire for a half Nelson.

"Matt, what are you talking about?"

The voice startled him. He'd been drifting again. Now he turned his head to search, but did not find her familiar presence, her scent, her heartbeat. "Claire?"

"Matt? Are you drunk?"

The voice was coming from his hand. Since when did Claire fit into his hand? No. It was his phone. In his hand. Had Claire called him? Had he called her? He couldn't remember. It didn't matter. "Mm not drunk, Claire."

"Matt, where are you?"

He stopped to consider. He'd kept moving, and now he could smell …

"My building," he murmured. "Close to … home." He could hear somebody singing an old Simon and Garfunkel song. "Ho-omeward bound … I wish I were … ho-omeward bound."

They weren't very good at singing. Claire told them to shush, and they did, but then someone was pushing him down and tugging at his suit, and the dog was biting him again, this time in the side. No, it wasn't the same dog, it was much bigger and meaner, but he could still fight it off.

"Matt, stop that! Hold still! I'm trying to help, dammit!"

Why did they want him to hold still? Why did they want to help the big, mean dog wrestle and bite him?

"Matt! Do that again and I'll tie your hands down!"