#1: Speak of the Devil

My name is Matthew Murdock, and I can’t see. I used to be able to, but now I can’t.

I lost my sight in an accident when I was fourteen, and that certainly changed my life forever, but something extraordinary happened to me as a result of my misfortune.

They say that when a person can’t use one of his/her senses, the remaining active senses overcompensate for the loss and function at a higher level. That was definitely the case with me. Except that my other four senses now operate at a superhumanly high level.

My hearing is so keen I can identify and track a person by his/her heartbeat, once I’ve ascertained to whom a particular heartbeat belongs to. Using this talent, I can detect the tiniest fluctuations in the heart rhythms of people when they speak, thus making me a human lie detector, since most people’s heartbeats slightly increase in speed when they don’t tell the truth. I can hear the minuscule patter of a mouse in a wall, and no one on earth can whisper low enough to escape my notice within one hundred feet of my presence.

My sense of touch is so fine I can read a newspaper by touching its pages and feeling the faint impressions made by the ink. I can also accurately distinguish changes in body and room temperature down to the smallest degree.

My olfactory abilities are impressive as well. I can smell and identify a person or object and track the scent around the streets of New York City with notable skill. I can perceive aromas that would otherwise only be noticed by members of the animal kingdom.

And my sense of taste is so keen that I can tell what kinds of spices are mixed in a gourmet casserole, and how much of each spice was used, just by means of my sensitive tongue. As another example of this ability, I can also tell how many grains of salt are in each bite of a deli pretzel.

Lastly, even though I’m blind, I developed a sort of “fifth sense”, though I’m not really sure how it works. I call it my “radar sense”. By concentrating all around me, I can picture in my mind the silhouettes and shapes of the people and objects in my vicinity. This “power” is omni-directional and can even accurately judge the distances and sizes of the things I encounter. So in a way, I really can see. Like having built-in night vision. Or echolocation. Or cerebral sonar. Whatever.

At some point I decided to use these “gifts” and become a costumed crimefighter, protecting the city streets from the sinful and depraved. I’m relatively new at this, and there’s times when I wonder if it’s the right thing to do, but I suppose I’ll leave it to the mercy of the court of public opinion to decide that.

Oh yeah. By the way, I’m a lawyer…


His name was Tyrone Crabtree, and he was just trying to get home from work. Tyrone worked at the little convenience store over on 52nd Street, second shift, and he always warily walked home every night with his head down, trying to stay anonymous and unnoticed. Tyrone was in his early sixties and his days of walking tall and proud in the Kitchen were long past. He was content to make his way to his apartment and stay out of trouble.

About a block from his apartment building Tyrone passed by a few tough-looking youths, arguing loudly about something. He was sure they were involved in a drug deal of some kind, and Tyrone thought they would wake up the whole neighborhood. He scurried past them as quickly as he could, not daring to look up at the hard, thuggish kids, and hoping he wouldn’t be accosted. He thought he’d made it, and breathed a sigh of relief-

When he heard the kids’ voices grow more animated and the unmistakable sounds of a scuffle reached Tyrone’s ears. Tyrone knew he should just keep walking to his home, but this sounded unusual for a street fight, and his curiosity got the best of him. He turned around towards the direction of the noise, and his jaw dropped in amazement and fright.

A red-hued figure was amidst the young thugs, moving with nigh-inhuman speed and flattening them with what appeared to Tyrone to be karate-style fighting moves. They all fell like bowling pins, and then the red figure picked up one of the teens by the shirt and brought him so their faces were mere inches apart. Tyrone couldn’t make out exactly what the figure was under the dim streetlight, but it sure looked like…

It looked like…


The law offices of attorneys-at-law Nelson and Murdock were located in a non-descript three-story office building on the edge of Hell’s Kitchen near midtown Manhattan. Nelson and Murdock occupied part of the third story. Their office consisted of a simple reception area with two doors leading to the small private offices of the two lawyers who were the entirety of the fledgling firm.

Franklin “Foggy” Nelson, a pudgy, jovial man with short curly brown hair, poured two cups of coffee and brought one over to his partner, who sat behind the large office desk that dominated the reception area. “Here you go, Matt,” Foggy said.

“Thanks, Foggy,” said Matt Murdock, who carefully felt for Foggy’s hands and took the coffee, gingerly putting the cup to his lips. Unlike his law partner, Matt was fit and hard muscled under his suit and tie, with fiery red hair and clear blue eyes hidden by dark, red-tinted shades. Matt was blind, but that handicap hadn’t prevented him from achieving his goals and becoming a promising young lawyer.

Nelson and Murdock hadn’t been in business long, but it had already begun to attain a positive reputation around Hell’s Kitchen. Though as different as night and day, both physically and personality-wise, the two lawyers had been best friends since their college years and worked well together as a team. The two were fast becoming known for their integrity and knowledge of the legal system, and their future appeared solid.

Frowning, Matt could hardly resist the urge to spit out the coffee. There were many things Foggy was good at; working the coffee machine wasn’t one of them. It was times like this when Matt wished his senses had an on and off button.

“We need a receptionist,” Matt said drolly.

“We do need a receptionist,” Foggy concurred, taking a chair next to Matt. “But geez, Matt, the ad’s been in the paper for weeks. I don’t know-“

As if on cue, the door to the reception area opened, and a young woman walked in. Matt could smell her before she even turned the doorknob- a pleasant mixture of her natural scent and fresh soap. Matt could “see” her shapely outline with his radar sense, and he could hear her nervously excited heartbeat.

“Oh man,” Foggy breathed, addressing Matt. “If you could see this…”

The woman was quite attractive, with shoulder length blonde hair and deep blue eyes, and she was carrying a clear plastic folder that could only be assumed was her resume.

“Hello,” she said confidently. “I’m here to inquire about the secretary position.”

“Come in, have a seat,” Foggy blustered, jumping up and hurrying around the desk to take the woman’s resume and shake her hand. “I’m Franklin Nelson, but you can call me ‘Foggy’”

“Thank you,” the woman said, smiling sweetly and sitting in the client chair. “I’m Karen Page, but please, call me Karen.”

Foggy went back to his seat and sat down. Matt smiled; Foggy hadn’t introduced him to the woman. Matt could feel Foggy’s temperature rise and knew his buddy was instantly attracted to her. He could also hear the blood rushing to Foggy’s nether regions, but Matt quickly blocked that disturbing noise out.

“I’m Matthew Murdock,” Matt said, putting out his hand. “Matt.”

Foggy realized his rudeness. “Sorry, Matt.”

“So, is the position still available?” Karen asked.

“Yes it is,” Matt said. “Do you have previous experience?”

“Well, if you look at my resume you’ll see I spent two years- oh my God.” Karen put her hand to her mouth, horrified. “I’m so sorry! I didn’t realize-“

“-That I’m blind? Quite all right, Karen,” Matt said, smiling. “Happens a lot. Now, about your previous experience?”


Ben Urich was an investigative reporter for New York’s Daily Bugle newspaper, and he was known for his strong willed tenacity when pursuing a story. Urich didn’t look the part of a determined journalist; he was a small, thin man with large, horn-rimmed spectacles and a nagging smoker’s cough. But he had earned the respect of most of his peers and colleagues, and that was good enough for him.

Now he wondered just what the hell he was doing. He was sitting at the dining table of an older gentleman down in the slums of Hell’s Kitchen, waiting for the man to make him a cup of instant coffee. Urich hated this section of the Kitchen and despised going there even on the best of assignments, but something about this story’s potential caught his fancy. On a tip Urich had come to investigate a mysterious figure appearing mostly at night around the Kitchen, busting up drug deals and attacking street muggers. It seemed a little far-fetched, but Urich thought it was worth a look, and within five minutes of asking on the street Urich had found his first witness here.

“You mind?” Urich asked as Tyrone Crabtree brought the coffee. When the old man shrugged, Urich lit a cigarette and pulled out his notepad.

“So Mr. Crabtree, tell me about the guy you saw last night,” Urich said. “Was it anybody you knew, somebody you recognized?”

Tyrone looked at Urich and seemed hesitant to answer. “Naw, Mister Urich, it wasn’t anybody I know. But I knowed what it was, that’s for sure.” It. As in not human.

Urich blew out smoke and took a sip of coffee. “Could you tell me what it looked like?”

Tyrone shifted uncomfortably. “I dunno… you might think I’m not all there, know what I’m sayin’?”

Urich already thought he wasn’t all there. “But Mr. Crabtree, I can’t really find out what’s going on around here if I don’t know what I’m looking for.”

Tyrone eyed him suspiciously, then said, ”It moved quick, like some kinda animal. It smacked those Jones boys around like they was nothin’. Before they knew what hit ‘em- whack! Whack! Whack!” Tyrone clapped his hands for emphasis.

“Did it see you?” Urich asked.

“Thought it did. It looked right at me,” Tyrone said. “Then it jumped away.”

“Jumped?”

“Yeah, it like…floated off.” Tyrone rubbed his chin, thoughtful. “Then it was gone.”

“What did it look like?” Urich was trying hard to get a description.

“It was all red, all over. It carried a stick, and it had these horns on its head,” Tyrone said.

Urich raised his eyebrows. “Are you saying-“

“Mister Urich, it was the devil. I’m tellin’ you, I saw the devil last night.”


Matt Murdock and Foggy Nelson walked out the front doors of their office building and stood out on the street for a moment. Matt didn’t need hypersenses to know what Foggy was thinking.

“I think she’ll work out just fine,” Matt said, referring to Karen Page, their new receptionist.

“I’ll say,” Foggy agreed, a little too eagerly. “She’s gorgeous.” Then, after noticing Matt’s grin he added, “Uh, plus she can type ninety words a minute.”

“That’s also a good quality to have when you’re a secretary,” Matt said, chuckling.

Matt was always amused when his friend developed a crush. It was easy for Matt to tell. The way Foggy’s heartbeat fluttered when he spoke of the lady in question. The smell of pheromones and sweat coming from his pores when the lady was around. The bumbling speech. Matt’s senses were always assaulted by his roly-poly partner when Foggy liked a girl.

“So Matt, wanna go down to Josie’s and toast our new hire?” Foggy asked.

“Can’t tonight,” Matt replied. “I’m going to be kind of busy. Maybe another night?”

“Sure, buddy,” Foggy said. “See you tomorrow.”

Foggy watched Matt head down the street, the sightless man tapping his red colored walking cane in front of him, oblivious to the myriad of dangers Hell’s Kitchen could present. Foggy thought: the man’s got serious balls, and then turned to hail a taxi.


Matt Murdock lived in a brownstone apartment building a scant two blocks over from the office building where he worked. Though he really didn’t need to, he played the part of the self-sufficient blind man very well, using his cane to guide him along the streets even though his own built in radar sense worked better than most sighted people’s eyes and would have allowed him to walk the streets without the cane. When he was safely inside his dwelling with the door closed, Matt picked his cane up and darted to his refrigerator for a quick bite of a ham sandwich he had prepared before he had left for work that morning. His hunger satiated, Matt touched the raised numbers on his wristwatch and determined that the time was 6:30 pm. The night was nearing, but he had a few minutes to spare.

Matt walked into his living room and picked up a Daily Bugle newspaper that was lying on an oak coffee table. His apartment was fairly sparse, with simple yet functional furniture, yet there was an elegance to the place that belied the fact that its occupant was unsighted. Matt ran his fingertips over the paper, reading the day’s headlines from the ink impressions, seeking any pertinent information he might require, until he had the feeling that now the time was right to go to work. He opened a window and reached out with his senses, probing, taking in the sounds, the odors- he could even feel that the rhythm of the city had altered and nighttime had truly begun.

Matt gathered his walking cane and pulled it apart at the middle, leaving two perfectly balanced, steel reinforced billy clubs in his hands. He entered his bedroom, opened the door to a large walk-in closet, and pressed a hidden button that caused a panel toward the back of the closet to slide open. Matt reached into the secret compartment and removed a dark red bodysuit with matching colored leg holster that served to sheathe his billy clubs. He laid the bodysuit across his bed and began to undress his everyday clothes he wore as a lawyer.

As he put on the crimson bodysuit Matt’s mindset began to morph into something else entirely.


Ben Urich had had enough for one day. He’d spent the whole afternoon and evening interviewing the Kitchen’s residents, and those who would actually speak to him told him about the wild “devil-man” that stalked the streets at night. Urich didn’t put much faith in these stories and chalked it up to an urban legend that had caught on and spread like wildfire down here. He seriously considered canning the piece and moving on to more substantial stories. Like UFO landings.

Urich lit a cigarette and headed for his car, which was parked on a side street about fifty yards from where he was walking. As he approached his vehicle, Urich was surprised by a ragged looking young man with wide, glazed over eyes and a nervous twitch that shook his whole body, which was unfortunate for Urich since the man was pointing a pistol at him.

“Gimme your money, m-mutha@#$%^&,” the kid stuttered. “G-gimme all your money.”

Urich thought: take it easy, he’s just a meth addict. “Okay, okay. It’s all right,” Urich said calmly. “Let me reach my wallet. It’s in my back pocket.” Urich reached behind his back slowly.

This excited the kid. “Whattaya doin’! Hurry up! I’ll shoot your ass! Don’t move!”

Urich was growing edgy as the kid’s gun hand began to shake and waver. “Hey, slow down man, I’m just trying to get-“

“THAT’S IT!” the kid screamed, and just before he pulled the trigger, Urich saw a red object blur towards the gun. The gun went off, and Urich collapsed to the ground, quaking in fright. Then there was the noise of the kid’s screams again, but they were cut off abruptly.

On the ground, Urich rubbed his chest and stomach frantically before he realized he hadn’t been shot. He stood up on wobbly, adrenaline fueled legs and saw a dark red figure standing over the unconscious assailant, holding some kind of stick or club in his fist. Urich’s first thought was: holy @#$%, it really is the devil!

The devil-man began to turn Urich’s way, so impulsively Urich yelled, “HEY!”

From a standing position the devil-man leaped into the air, performed a reverse somersault, and landed on the roof of Urich’s car, where it crouched and peered at the open mouthed reporter. Urich thought: goddamn, how’d it do that?

But Ben Urich was known for his toughness, and so he tentatively stepped toward the crimson being, trying to get a better look. The devil-man was completely red from head to toe, including glowing red eyes, and Urich could sense that it was preparing to spring away. Urich didn’t want that, not just yet.

Urich swallowed and mustered up his confident voice. “Wait! Hang on. Don’t go, please. I wanna talk to you.”

The devil-man cocked his head toward Urich, but the journalist felt as if the red figure wasn’t really looking at him. “Who are you?” it said in a low, deep, whispery growl.

“Ah, I’m Ben Urich. From the Bugle.”

“A reporter?”

Now they were getting somewhere. Wish I had a camera or a photog with me. “Yeah,” Urich said with more self assurance. “And you’re the devil-man people are talking about around here.”

“Daredevil.”

“Huh?”

“My name is Daredevil.”

“Of course it is,” Urich said, and now that his jitters were gone, he could see the thing more clearly. It wasn’t very big, but it was well muscled, and it possessed a kind of tension, like a coil spring or whip, giving it an aura of power even at rest. This wasn’t the devil, it was a man; he wore a mask, and his eyes were shielded by red lenses that reflected the streetlights and made them appear to glow. To top it off, there was an interlocking “DD” on his chest that blended in with the rest of the outfit. Urich thought: great, another nutjob in a costume running around. As if those four goofballs in midtown weren’t bad enough.

“So…Daredevil,” Urich said. “What are you trying to do here? What’s your story?”

“I’m going to clean up Hell’s Kitchen.”

Urich snorted. “Sounds like a tall order. You know how things are down here?”

“Yes, and it’s time someone did something about it.”

“Hey, you got my vote,” Urich blurted cynically. “But I mean, there’s an awful lotta mob money floating around, know what I mean?”

“The mobs are going down, and I’m just getting started,” Daredevil said.

“Really?” Urich’s interest was fully piqued. “How far you gonna go?”

“As far as I have to. The trail seems to lead all the way to Fisk,” Daredevil said.

Urich almost choked on his own spit. “Fisk?! You’re gonna take on the Kingpin?”

“If need be.”

“Buddy, I dunno if you’re crazy or just plain stupid, but the Kingpin can’t be touched,” Urich said. Wilson Fisk was widely known as the Kingpin of Crime, the boss of bosses to the New York mob families.

Daredevil paused a moment, as if making a decision. “Urich, I want to know something.”

“Yeah, sure. What?”

“Can I count on you? Can I come to you for information and know it’s on the level? You seem to be pretty straight forward. Can I trust you?”

Urich didn’t know what to make of that. “Uh…sure, sure I can do that-“

Urich’s cell phone rang and the reporter jumped, startled. He fumbled to answer it, and quickly spoke to his wife, Doris, who had been worrying about him. After shutting off the cell phone Urich turned to speak again to the crimson crimefighter-

But Daredevil was gone.


Fogwell’s Gym was once a boxer’s haven, where up and coming prizefighters learned their craft and plied their trade. Now the old gym had been semi-converted to a modern exercise palace, with new shiny weight machines scattered among the old free weights and weight benches. But the boxing ring still stood, and one corner of the gym still housed the old, shabby boxing equipment that had built up many a pugilist’s physique in Fogwell’s long past heyday.

Fogwell’s Gym was closed, and the lights were completely turned off, but Matt Murdock, clad only in boxer trunks, was inside the ring, moving silently in the darkness, performing a fifty-four-step jujutsu kata. His body was covered in a fine sheen of sweat, and his supple muscles handled the complicated movements with relative ease. Matt was totally focused; nothing in the world- no sound, scent, taste or touch- could distract or ruin his concentration.

When he finished the kata, Matt turned and sensed with his radar the heavy bag mounted in the corner near the rear wall. He stepped through the ropes of the boxing ring and approached the bag, assuming a traditional boxing stance. He then fired left jabs at the bag, striking his target with great force, his teeth gritted and his body perfectly working in tune with itself. The only sounds he made were the WAP! WAP! WAP! noises of his fist pounding the bag, echoing throughout the empty gym.

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