Love Hina Fan Fiction ❯ Guardian Devil ❯ Chapter 3 ( Chapter 3 )

Disclaimer: I do not own Love Hina or any of the Marvel Characters. Some of the parts that are in this story were used from both the novel and the movie of Daredevil. The original script and novel were done by Mark Steven Johnson and Greg Cox.

 

Author's Note: “…Daredevil…”-bold face means they're speaking Japanese.

“…Daredevil…”-you get the idea.

 

Love Hina: Guardian Devil

 

Chapter 3

 

Part 1

Jack Murdock's fists pounded the heavy bag. Despite the bag gloves protecting his hands, the rapid-fire punches produced a series of satisfying smacks whenever his padded knuckles connected with swinging bag. That's it, he thought. One after another, just like old times.

With Matt's help, Jack had converted the roof of the run-down tenement building into a makeshift gymnasium. The seventy-pound punching bag hung on a chain beneath a huge wooden water tank. Bathed in a healthy sweat, Jack danced around the bag, working on his foot work while delivering multiple combinations of hooks and jabs.

 

It wasn't easy. This would be a grueling workout for a boxer of any age, and Jack was in his early forties. Already he could feel his energy evaporating, his reflexes growing sluggish, and he still had hours of training to go.

 

He was out of practice, too, having spent too much time doing Saint's dirty work and not enough time to improve his body and skills. Am I kidding myself? he wondered tirelessly, even as his fists slammed into the bag with steadily decreasing force. He caught himself dropping his guard and had to yank his arms back into position. Can I still cut in the ring?

 

An egg timer calling a halt to the three-minute practice round. Jack gratefully stepped away from the hanging bag, taking a momentary breather. His brawny chest rose and fell heavily as he gasped in exhaustion. Sweat soaked through the back of his sleeveless white T-shirt, and he bent over wearily, resting his gloved hands on his knees. His arms felt as if they weighed a hundred pounds each, while his legs were as rubbery as Jell-O. I can't do this; he thought in despair, It's been too long.

 

Resetting the timer, he looked over at Matt, who was sitting on a weight bench a few yards away. A pair of newly acquired dark glasses rested on the boy's sunburned nose as he ran his fingers over the pages of a hardcover Braille textbook. Jack could see the obvious effort on his son's face, as Matt was forced to learn to read all over again.

 

Jack felt a stab of guilt. He had promised Matt, after the accident that he was through with Saint that he was going to concentrate on turning his stalled fight career around. He'd meant it, too. But here he was; ready to give up before he'd fought a single bout!

 

Over at the weight bench, Matt slammed the textbook shut in frustration. Cursing under his breath, he looked ready to up as well.

 

What kind of example am I setting him, Jack pondered, if I don't give it everything I've got?

The buzzer rang again, Signaling the end of Jack's one-minute break. Father and son faced each other across the sun-baked urban roof-scape, which shared with scattered chimneys, skylights, TV antennae, and ventilation fans. Jack understood that, beneath the opaque glasses, Matt's eyes could not possibly see him, but he knew that his son was “watching” him nonetheless.

 

 

Even though Matt had a heightened sense of touch, learning too read Braille was agonizing. Matt felt as though he'd been thrown back into nursery school, compelled to memorize his ABC's all over again. A month ago, before the accident, he'd been reading at a twelfth-grade level, well ahead of his years. Now, all of a sudden, he was back to reading child books.

 

It's not fair! he thought. Even the dumbest kid in his class could read better than he could now. I'll never be able to catch up again.

 

Junior high struck him as an insurmountable huddle, college a total impossibility. Law school? Hah! Matt thought bitterly. Don't make me laugh!

 

A buzzer sounded, and Matt heard an almost inaudible groan escape his father as the aging boxer faced the daunting prospect of another three minutes at the bag. He could tell, by listening to Jack's heart rate and breathing, that his old man was almost worn out, after working himself pretty hard. The impact of his fists against the heavy bag had boomed like thunder, while the odor of his father's sweat overpowered even the choking exhaust fumes from the streets below. He was pushing himself to the limit, just to get back into fighting form again.

 

Guessing he's kind of starting over, too, Matt thought. His dad had promised not to work for Saint anymore, and Matt believed him. Jack Murdock was going to be a boxer again, a champion; no matter how hard he had to train to get back into shape. He's doing it for me, Matt realized, which meant that perhaps some good had come from his accident on the docks.

 

The boy's expensive Braille reader, which he had slammed shut a few moments ago, rested on his lap waiting for him, just as the punching bag waited for his father.

 

Dad's keeping his promise, Matt thought, his fingertips grazing the patterns of dots on the embossed on the reader's cover, spelling out the book's title in Braille. How can I let him down now?

 

 

Jack watched, his ragged breathing settling down a bit, as Matt sighed and opened up his textbook again, starting over right where he's left off before. A smile crossed his rough-hewn face, and he turned back to the heavy bag with renewed determination.

 

Smack! Smack! Smack! A blistering one-two-three combination battered the punching bag as Jack “The Devil” Murdock found his second wind. Fists up, chin down, in a perfect fighting stance, he whaled on the defenseless bag as though he was going one-on-one with Howard Saint himself.

 

Right, left. Right, left, right. A jab, an uppercut, and then a straight right punch with plenty of muscle behind it. Suddenly, Jack couldn't wait to get back in the ring again.

 

Ain't we a pair? he thought proudly, sneaking a peek at the blind boy at his studies.

A couple of fighters on the comeback trail…

 

Part 2

Early morning. Matt practiced with his cane as he walked slowly up Ninth Avenue, concentrating on his technique while trying to ignore the embarrassed whispers and sighs of pity that followed him down the block. If only all those people feeling sorry for him knew just how well he could hear them…!

 

To be honest, Matt wasn't completely sure that, what with his ultra-sensitive hearing and all, he really needed the cane. But he had decided early on not to worry his dad by revealing just how much the toxic chemicals had affected him. Besides, the last thing Matt wanted was for a bunch of nosy doctors to turn him into a human test subject. All of which meant that he had to more or less go through the motions of being just an ordinary blind person, which meant the dark glasses and walking with the cane.

 

A white cane, to be exact, although Matt had to take everyone's word for that. Colors were one thing his remaining senses were no good with. White was the traditional color for blind people's canes, though, so that was good enough for him.

 

He tapped his way down the sidewalk, swinging the cane form side to side, about two feet in front of him. The idea was to verify that an area was empty, then step into it. You tapped left as your right foot stepped forward, then tapped right as you stepped left. Kind of like throwing a left jab to the head, Matt thought, to open up the chin to a hard right.

 

Although his dad had forbidden him to fight, Matt had picked up a lot just by observing his dad all these years and by practicing when nobody was looking—before the accident that is.

The tip of the cane tapped against an obstacle, and Matt recognized the glassy ring of an empty beer bottle, lying sideways on the pavement. Matt picked it up and thoughtfully carried it to the nearest trash container, where the discarded bottle joined an overflowing heap of refuse.

A car honked its horn, maybe five blocks away, but Matt didn't even flinch. He smiled, proud of the way of he had learned to filter out the nonstop clamor of the city. A few weeks ago, that unexpected honk would have caused him to jump out of his shoes. Now he could register the sound without overreacting. He had his super-senses under his control.

 

Or so he thought.

 

A city bus, racing a red light, roared through the intersection in front of Matt. The speeding bus sounded like a jet engine taking off. Matt staggered, overwhelmed by the deafening blast of noise. He fell backward over the curb and landed hard on his butt. His cane slipped from his fingers. Startled pedestrians gasped at his clumsiness, and Matt's face flushed red. Refusing all kindness offers of assistance, he retrieved his cane and climbed awkwardly to his feet, an angry grimace on his face.

 

Okay, he thought grimly. Maybe I haven't got this problem completely solved yet.

 

But I will!

 

Part 3

The canvas floor was spattered with blood, most of it Jack's. Back in the ring again, for the first time in months, he was taking a beating up against the ropes. Frankie Miller, a hotshot heavyweight six years younger than Jack, had him cornered and on the defensive. Jack shelled up, ducking his head behind his upraised mitts, while Miller lambasted his ribs with nonstop sequence of punishing body blows.

 

The crowd hooted and jeered as Jack tried to defend himself. There were no Devil fans in the arena, just a rowdy mob hungry for blood. The smoky atmosphere of the arena was filled with naked aggression and impatience. This wasn't even the main event, Jack knew, as he felt Miller's pile-driver fists bruise his ribs—just a preliminary match to get the crowd warmed up. Miller landed another punch, and Jack bit down hard on his mouth guard to keep from crying out in pain.

 

I can't give up, he thought desperately. If I can't go the distance tonight, I'll never get another bout again.

 

He bounced off the ropes, sweeping his right arm out in a clumsy attempt to deflect an incoming body blow. The parry left his right side undefended, though, and he barely snapped his fists back in time to catch a speeding jab to his head. He countered punched, striking out with a sideways slip of his head.

 

The cocksure young fighter redoubled his attack, driving Jack back into the corner with a blinding flurry of jabs and punches. Jack took the abuse, blocking what blows he could, while waiting to be saved by the bell.

 

Don't give up! he prodded himself mercilessly. Stay on your feet…

 

For Matt's sake.

 

Part 4

Matt was back on the rooftop, struggling through the Braille textbook. After another exhausting training session, his dad had gone downstairs for a nap, but Matt figured he still had a few more hours of study left in him. School would be starting again in September, and Matt wanted to be ready for it.

 

The wind picked up, causing the speed bag mounted beneath the water tower, across from the heavy bag, to swing back and forth on its chain. The metallic squeak of the chain sounded like a chainsaw to the boy's ultra-sensitive ears, didn't make study any easier.

 

Squeak.

 

Squeak.

 

The noise gnawed away at his nerves like some sort of Chinese water torture. Matt grimaced and tried to tune the aggravating distraction out, but the creaky chain kept on squealing with every stray gust of wind.

 

Squeak.

 

Squeak.

 

“Shut up!” Unable to take it anymore, Matt hurled his book at the swinging speed bag in frustration. The flung text book flew across the rooftop like a missile—and smacked hard against the leather bag.

 

Hey! Matt thought, hearing the book rebound against the speed bag. Nobody could have been more astonished than he was at the point accuracy of his throw. I actually hit it!

But how the heck did I do that?

 

He got up from the weight bench and approached the bag, leaving his white cane behind. When he estimated that he was only about a foot away from the bag, he raise his hands and tried to sense its exact location. His ears focused on the nearby squeaking while his outstretched fingers, which were only just learning how to read, tried to feel the sound waves stirring the air.

 

Yes! He thought excitedly. Standing there, alone on the roof, matt discovered that, in a weird way, he could actually “see” the speed bag. The echoes bouncing off the sturdy timber legs of the water tank seemed to outline the teardrop-shaped leather bladder, adding to the impression created by the smell and sound of the punching bag: the erratic squeaking of the chain, the musky scent of the battered leather. Taken together, the varied clues combined to give Matt a clear mental image of the bag, shimmering behind the boy's shuttered eyes like liquid mercury.

It's almost like radar, he marveled. Like a bat or a dolphin…

 

Wham! He threw a punch at where he imagined the bag to be, and felt it rebound from the force of his blow. Yes! he thought, a grin breaking out over his face. He slugged the bag again and again, ignoring the pain of his knuckles. He worked the bag with both his fists and his hyper-acute senses, until the once-circular bag was just a pitiful streak against his internal radar screen.

 

Part 5

Miller was looking cocky, as if he had already won the match. Don't count me out, Jack thought, running on nothing but sheer pluck and cussedness, until I'm flat on my back on the canvas.

The younger boxer still had Jack trapped in the corner, but now Miller was dancing on his heels, wasting energy while he showed off his snappy footwork. Jack blocked and parried, repelling Miller's blows as best he could, while he reached down inside himself, with what remaining strength he has left, while he waited for this overconfident punk to give him an opening.

 

There! Jack ducked Miller's right and countered with a left uppercut to Frankie's chin. The blow caught Miller by surprise, and Jack took advantage of the fighter's confusion to block Miller's hasty counterpunch and roll off a smooth left hook. Powered by Jack's pivoting back and hips, the hook knocked Miller backward a few steps, almost falling onto the mat.

 

Now it was Miller's blood dripping onto the canvas. How `bout that! he thought triumphantly, feeling better than he had in months, since before he'd let Saint turn him into hired muscle. The old man's still got some fight in him!

 

The bell finally rang, but it wasn't the Devil who needed saving…

 

Part 6

Matt waited at the street corner, at the intersection of Thirty-eight and Ninth, for that roaring bus to zoom past again. Last time the thunder of the bus's passage had literally run over him, but today Matt was ready for it.

 

Maybe.

 

He heard the bus approaching, less than a block away. Matt grabbed a lamp pole with one hand, bracing himself. Another pedestrian—from the man's voice and heart rate, Matt guessed he was over sixty—brushed by Matt on his to the crosswalk. “Excuse me”, the old man muttered vaguely.

 

Matt caught the inky smell of fresh newsprint, heard papers rustle nearby, and realized that the old man had his nose buried in the morning paper. The Daily Bugle, it smelled like.

The bus barreled toward them, sounding like a stampeding rhino to Matt's ears. Not paying any attention in front of him, the old man stepped off the curb.

 

No! Matt thought. Acting on instinct, he whipped out his cane, blocking the old man's path. A heartbeat later, the massive bus zipped past them at its usual speeding pace, producing a wall of sound that crashed against Matt's dogged endurance and resolve. He gritted his teeth, standing firm in the face of deafening noise, but he didn't flinch—and he didn't let the old man walk blindly into danger.

 

Seconds later, the bus was gone, leaving only retracting echoes behind, and both he and the other man were still standing, completely unscratched. “My goodness!”

 

“What--?” the old man gasped, looking away from his paper at last. Matt felt the man's confused gaze upon him, seeing only a helpless blind child. “How on earth--?”

 

The light changed, and Matt heard the click of its circuitry, as well as the sound of traffic braking to a halt. He withdrew his cane, granting the old guy free access to the intersection, and calmly crossed the street.

 

Part 7

The crowd was bigger this time. Jack wasn't just a warm-up act anymore. “Way to go, Devil!” someone hollered, and Jack realized he actually had fans these days. “Give `em hell!”

I'll do my damnedest, he thought, facing off against his latest opponent. Dave “Madman” Mack was a major heavyweight contender, not nearly as green as poor Frankie Miller, whom Jack had beaten by a knockout. Jack knew it was going to take everything he had to stay in the ring with Mack, let alone beat him.

 

Mack came on strong, closing on Jack to fight inside the strike zone, but Jack held his ground, giving as good as he got. All those hours of training on the rooftop were definitely paying off; his speed and stamina were as strong as they'd ever been. Jack felt like his old self again, back in his prime.

 

Thanks to Matt, he thought gratefully, moving his head side to side to avoid Mack's inside punches. He gave me a reason to turn my life around. A surge of anger flared in his chest as he remembered the horrifying and disappointment look on Matt's face that day down by the docks. He took that furry and channeled it into a right-left combination that left Madman Mack reeling back. I'm never going to disappoint my son again!

 

His fist flew like a battering ram and Mack ate leather. The other fighter crumpled to the mat, unaware to the bellowing count of the ref:

 

“…seven…eight…nine…ten!”

 

Mack stayed down, and the audience roared in approval as the ref lifted Jack's glove in victory. The cheers of the crowd rained down on him like a cleansing shower, washing away all the mistakes and setbacks of the last few years.

 

“Devil! Devil! Devil!”

 

Part 8

Matt stood on the ledge, at the brink of the precipice. His dad was gone for the afternoon, so he had the rooftop to himself. Braille texts lay neglected on the tar-paper floor beside his father's weights and jump rope, while Matt eagerly tested the limits of his miraculous new abilities.

He reached out and felt the empty air in front of him. No guard rail to protect him from his fall. Matt heard the traffic several stories below, and a flicker of doubt undercut his resolve. It was a loooong way down.

 

Matt sweat-dropped

 

What if he fell? For a second, he imagined himself splattered all over the sidewalk, a hundred percent dead as well as blind. Then he remembered what his father had always told him.

You can do anything if you're not afraid.

 

Matt took a deep breath, steadied his nerves, then cart-wheeled along the edge of the roof. Yes! he thought excitedly. Instead of falling to his death, he rotated faster and faster, relying on his newfound radar senses to keep him from disaster. Matt couldn't believe how easy it was. This is incredible!

 

He landed on his feet at the northwest corner of the roof, his heart pounding his exhilaration. The toe of his sneaker probed the corner, finding the top of a broken rain gutter that plummeted four stories down to the rooftop next door.

 

“Hmm,” Matt murmured. A crazy idea occurred to him. It was insane and stupid, but almost too exciting to resist. He crouched beside the top of the gutter and tapped it with his finger, listening to the echo of the aluminum. He felt the vibrations with the palm of his hand. Would the hanging gutter support my weight?

 

Probably.

 

Don't be afraid, he heard his father coaching him.

 

He stepped forward, placing one foot upon the top of the gutter. He licked his lips nervously, took another deep breath, and pushed off from the ledge.

 

Whooooosh!

 

Matt slid down the gutter like an Extreme snowboarder. His blood was singing in his ears, and a hot wind blew against his face as he zoomed down the rickety slide. The soot-blackened roof of the brownstone next door rushed up at him like an oncoming elevator, yet Matt was too thrilled to be concerned. He tried to bail out as he reached the bottom, but was going way too fast.

Laughing hysterically, he tumbled ass over elbows onto the roof below. His dark glassed went flying from his nose, exposing the wide blue eyes underneath.

 

Matt lay sprawled on the roof for maybe a minute or two. Then he propped himself up and wiped the soot from his raw, reddened hands. His forehead and palms were scraped, and blood dripped from his nose. One knee of his faded blue jeans had been torn open and he'd skinned the leg beneath.

 

But Matt was smiling. He thrust his fists into the air in a victory salute.

 

I wasn't afraid, Dad! he thought proudly. I wasn't afraid!

 

Part 9

Tonight's the night, Jack thought, as he carefully wrapped his hands in the Locker room of the Budokan Arena in Tokyo City, Japan. He pulled the protective strips of cloth tight around his thumb and knuckles, then tied them off at his wrist with Velcro. He flexed his fingers experimentally, making sure the wraps weren't too snug, then smiled at the thought of just how really far he'd come.

 

Last week, after ten fights, ten unexpected victories, Jack was surprised when he received a letter, what he thought was unbelievable, from the World Boxing Association (WBA) saying that he will be competing for the title of WBA World Middleweight Class Championship against a 30-year-old, Japanese Boxer, Shinji Takehara in the Budokan Arena on July 15, 1994. But what astounded him the most is that he, along with his son, Matt, get to travel to Japan of all places. They even provided First Class plane tickets for both the Murdocks. Jack smiled when he remembered the excited look on his son's face when he told Matt the news. It warmed his heart to see his son being his happy, carefree self again. Finally, they were getting out of this dangerous neighborhood for awhile to go on a first of a life time trip to another country. Jack, who was as excited as his son was, couldn't even wait to go.

 

Four days later, they both started packing, not much, though, just some clothes and a few essentials that will last for a week stay in Tokyo City. After a several hour flight towards Japan, Jack Murdock and his son, Matt, had finally made it. They met up at the terminal with a WBA Agent, and personal translator since both Jack and Matt couldn't speak Japanese. The Agent also provided them with a limousine that will take them to the Grandest, and most luxurious Hotel in Tokyo, the Keio Plaza. Their room was one finest ones that they had ever seen; the food was great, although Matt's stomach went a little queasy from trying to eat sushi, and the service was excellent. They had never been treated like this since…well, ever.

The second day, Jack almost spent the whole afternoon training harder than he had ever done. The Plaza had a gymnasium as well, which Jack had not seen that many exercising equipment, even the places that he went to were school gyms compare to that place. Matt came along during his training to be Jack's support and he was more determined as ever. From Sit-Ups and punching bags to running a couple of laps around the gym, Jack “the Devil” Murdock was ready.

And tonight, he felt like he could take on the world.

 

A few months ago, Jack would never have dreamed of this moment, fighting for the World Middleweight Championship title against the likes of Takehara, let alone be favored to win. But that was before he beat the odds by knocking out Frankie Miller in the fourth round. Now his scrapbook was bulging with gushing articles praising his unexpected comeback, “An inspiration to aging baby boomers everywhere,” the New York Times had written, while the Post had raved, “Give `The Devil' his due. Jack Murdock has proven that second chances are always possible, if you've got heart and guts to go for them.”

 

Jack's only regret was that Matt couldn't read the clippings of newspapers or see the dramatic news photos of him standing in triumph over the fallen bodies of Miller, Mack, Robbins, and the rest. I wonder if there are any fight magazines published in Braille, he thought, making a mental note to look into the matter if tonight's bout went as well as he hoped. I wish Matt could see me fighting for him, just one more time.

 

Matt was in the audience tonight, Jack knew. Even though he wouldn't be able to see anything, Matt had insisted on showing up for tonight's big fight, and Jack hadn't had the heart to say no. I wouldn't be here if not for Matt, he thought. He deserves to be on hand when, God willing, our hopes and dreams come true.

 

All Jack had to do was beat Takehara tonight, and they would be set for life. Then, both Jack and his son would afford to take a tour around Tokyo, which Matt was looking forward to it.

I can do it, he thought confidently. He got up off of the bench and threw a couple of practice punches at the locker room air. He'd never been in better shape, or better motivated to win. “Just you wait, Matt,” he whispered. He had let his son down for too long; tonight was the night he buried the past and became the man he owed it to his son to be. “I'll make you proud of me.”

 

“Talking to yourself, Murdock?” A sarcastic voice intruded on his dreams of glory. “Don't tell me you're punch-drunk already.”

 

Jack spun around in surprise; preoccupied, he hadn't heard the locker room door swing open. His expression darkened as he saw who it was.

 

“Saint,” he snarled, all but spitting out the name, “What are you doing all the way over here?”

Howard Saint was a cunning-looking sharpie wearing an expensive suit. His black hair slicked black elegantly, and his cuff links and tie pin glimmered with twenty four-karat gold. He strolled across the locker room toward Jack, flanked by two glowering thugs whose scowls seemed permanently imprinted on their features.

 

“Thought I might take my wife and son on vacation, you know, take them to a different country; see new sights, tour the cities. So I just thought `hmm, why not take them to Japan?'” Saint mocked excitedly with a snake-like grin on his face. “Besides, there's this old friend here that I haven't seen in a long time, so I thought I paid him a visit as well, and to my `surprise' I see you here. What a `coincidence', don't you think?”

 

It wasn't a coincidence, Jack knew it. It couldn't have been a coincidence for him to see Howard Saint again. He had been set up. But the question is, how?

 

Saint took a step towards Jack. “Jack, my buddy ol-pal,” he said with a smirk. “It's been a while…

 

Not long enough, Jack thought. He wasn't interested in making clever conversation. “I don't work for you anymore,” he said bluntly.

 

Saint sighed theatrically. “Jack, Jack—you never stopped.” He shook his head like a schoolteacher dealing with a slow-witted student. “Did you really think you won those fights on your own? Miller, Mack, Bendis—they're all my fighters. Just like you.”

 

Jack felt as if a rug had been yanked out from beneath his feet. Of course! he realized, unable to deny the truth of Fallon's smug declaration. Reality crashed down on him like a crowbar, and he dropped onto the bench, a beaten man. How could I have been such an idiot? he castigated himself mercilessly.

 

Howard Saint smiled, like a crocodile savoring a bloody meal. “I promised my friend, who I mentioned earlier, that I do him a favor,” he said while putting his hands behind his in a business-like posture. “You see, he made a bet, a huge amount, with a weapons marketer from the European country. But, he's not sure if he was going to win the bet or not, so he asked me to get a fighter that I know and `persuade' him to lose a match to his prized fighter.” Now Saint stopped grinning and made a serious look. “I pulled a lot of strings to get you here, Jack. So now it is your turn to do something for me.” Jack knew already what Howard Saint was about to say next. “I want you to take a dive in the first round, Jack. No arguments.”

 

Saint raised an impeccably manicured hand in anticipation of an angry protest, but Jack was too devastated to make a fuss. “Think about your boy, Jack. That poor blind kid.” His eyes glittered as coldly as his polished cuff links. “Shame if he ended up an orphan, too. I mean, I know what's it like for a father to put his needs aside and think about their child. That is why I already planned for his future in case something happens to me.” He turned his back on Jack and, accompanied by the two large gorillas, headed for the exit. He pushed in the doorway for one last parting shot. “I'm sure you'll do the right thing.”

 

Jack just sat on the bench, staring in silence at the uncaring concrete floor.

 

Part 10

 

He was just as silent later that evening as his handlers, who undoubtedly worked for Saint as well, led him from the locker room to the ring. His trademark boxing robe, with its flashy crimson satin and pointed devil horns, hung on his muscular frame like a shroud. Peering out from beneath its hood, Jack mournfully searched the bleachers, quickly spotting Matt sitting at ringside with his white cane clutched between his knees. The thrilled look on Matt's face broke Jack's heart.

 

I wanted you to be proud of me, he thought bleakly. It was all he could do to put one step ahead of the other as he climbed into the waiting ring.

 

Saint was waiting, too, only a few seats away from Matt, who was sitting next to a Japanese person, in a business-like suit just like Saint, who Jack assume was Howard's friend. Saint gave Jack a knowing wink, and the unhappy boxer wondered bitterly just how much his `friend stood to make on tonight's betting. Probably more than Matt and I could spend in a year…

 

Busy hands peeled his robe off his shoulders and thrust a mouth guard between his jaw. The bell rang, and Jack plodded into the ring, all his recent goals and accomplishments ripped to pieces by Saint's sly insinuations. Jack felt as though he'd been roughly awakened from an impossible dream.

 

Shinji Takehara was fifteen years younger than Jack, and light-years faster. His mind enveloped by a cloud of choking despair, Jack barely saw him coming. The crowd gasped in astonishment as the young, Japanese boxer hit Jack with a vicious upper cut that dropped the Devil to the mat in a matter of minutes.

 

His skull ringing, his bruised profile flat against the canvas, Jack wondered if he should even bother trying to lift his head. Saint had said in the first round. Well, it can't get much firster than this.

 

“…two, three, four, five…”

 

Through a fog, Jack heard the ref counting him out, but he never wanted to get up again. Maybe if I just lay here, he thought, the world will go away and let me die.

 

Then a single voice cut through the turmoil and misery. “Dad!” Matt yelled from only a few yards away. “C'mon, Dad! Get up!”

 

Unable to ignore his son's spirited cries, Jack raised his head, gazing through bleary eye at Matt's opaque black glasses. For once he was glad Matt couldn't see him, gasping and bleeding on the canvas like the washed-up loser he was.

 

“That's it, Dad!” Matt urged. It didn't occur to Jack to wonder how Matt knew he had lifted his head. His son's cane clattered to the floor of the arena as the boy leapt to his feet, crying out at the top of his lungs, “You can do it! Get up!”

 

A couple seats away, Saint glanced annoyingly at Matt, and then fixed a warning look on Jack. In the first round, he mouthed silently, his baleful expression conveying an unspoken threat. Jack felt cold hand grip his heart as he acknowledged what was sure to happen to him if he defied Saint's orders. I'd be as good as dead, he knew, swallowing hard. Even with his life and career going down the tubes, Jack was afraid to die.

 

But what had he always told Matt?

 

Don't be afraid. You can do anything if you're not afraid.

 

Matt needed to believe that if he was going to overcome his handicap. Jack knew now that his hopes of the big time were just the pipe of a deluded old pug, but maybe there was still one last thing he could provide for his son.

 

A good example.

 

“…seven, eight, nine…”

 

Jack lurched to his feet before the ref could finish his count. The crowd howled in disappointment (Well, what do you expect, he is in a Japanese country and they're fans of a Japanese Boxer), and raised his mitts before Takehara's face and taking the fight back to him. He stampeded into the younger fighter's strike zone, tossing jabs and counterpunches at Takehara like they were going out of style.

 

Takehara moved in to finish him off, but Jack countered it with a legendary left hook. The Devil's knuckles slammed into Takehara's jaw, catching him off guard. Blood flew from the Japanese Boxer's pulverized bottom lip.

 

Takehara charged Jack like a bulldozer, flailing wildly with his fists. Bad move, kid, Jack thought, calmer and more in control than ever before, knowing that he had nothing left to lose except his son's respect.

 

Jack blocked Takehara's frenzied blows with ease. The desperate young fighter left himself wide open, and Jack took advantage of his carelessness to pummel Takehara's body with combination after combination until Takehara looked as woozy as a Hell's Kitchen wino after an all-night binge.

 

“Way to go, Dad!” Matt screamed from the bleachers, and Jack risked a lightning peek at the boy's ecstatic face. Not even those damn dark glasses could hide his son's overflowing excitement and pride. This one's for you, Matty, he thought.

 

He didn't look at Saint.

 

Time to wrap this up, Jack decided. He dropped his left, luring his opponent in. As Takehara lunged forward, taking the bait, Jack bent his knees, dipping beneath Takehara's headlong punch and swinging up from below with a rocketing upper jab that knocked Takehara right off his feet!

The young boxer hit the canvas with a gratifying thud. Jack stood by, fists raised and ready, until the ref counted all the way to ten. Then a sweaty hand grabbed Jack by the wrist, raising his right hand in triumph.

 

“And the winner…Jack `The Devil' Murdock!”

 

The entire audience made were all disappointed that Takehara had lost the title, but they clapped and cheered to Jack nonetheless for an excellent performance, all except for Saint, his goons, and an angry looking Japanese friend of his. Matt ran up to the edge of the ring, and Jack eagerly pulled him through the ropes. A frowning handler threw Jack his red robe, and draped The Devil's garb, horns and all, over his son's head and shoulders. He hoisted Matt on his shoulder as they the cheers and applause of the crowd.

 

Jack didn't care if he doesn't have any `Devil fans' around here, the only fan he cared about was the one sitting on his shoulder. Jack cherished these magical moments with his son, knowing they were his last.

 

Part 11

Later, after the crowd went home, Jack found himself surprisingly alone. His handlers, the fight officials, even the press guys cleared out of the locker room fast. Guess everybody knows what was supposed to go down tonight, he realized. Nobody wants to get too close to a walking dead man.

 

He took one last look around the empty locker room. He thought of Matt, who was waiting for him out in the front of the arena. In theory, the boy should be safe; after Saint made an example of Jack, he'd have no reason to go after Matt.

 

Good-bye, son, he thought solemnly. He hated the idea of leaving the poor kid alone in the world, but there was no other way to keep Matt safe; as long as Jack was of use to people like Saint, Matt would always be in danger. Take care, kiddo. Study hard and don't forget what I taught you. Emotion tightened his throat, and his tired eyes grew wet. Hope your life turns out better than your old man's.

 

There was no point in putting things off any longer. Jack left the Budokan Arena the rear exit, not even bothering to bring his Championship belt, stepping into a back, darkened alley. A black limousine with tinted windows waited in the alley, looking incongruously elegant amidst the puddles.

 

Jack made no attempt to flee the alley. “Go on,” he said gruffly, addressing the limo's occupants. The purr of the car's engine was deceptively gentle. “Get it over with.”

 

A car door slid open, and Jack gulped as the limousine rose a full six inches off its wheels, as though disgorging the weight of an entire gang.

 

Part 12

His dad's robe was way too big for Matt, but he didn't care. He figured he must be presenting quite a peculiar sight—a blind kid wearing an oversized demon costume, complete with horns—but who cared what anyone else though? Dad wiped up the floor with Takehara! he thought proudly, reliving that glorious moment. Grinning broadly, he threw an enthusiastic punch at the warm summer air, mimicking his dad's match-winning upper cut. I knew he could do it!

Matt paced back and forth in front of the Budokan Arena, waiting for his dad. His cane tapped the sidewalk a bit more emphatically than usual. Too bad he couldn't tell his dad just how closely he'd managed to follow the fight; with his radar senses, Matt had kept track of every single punch and parry, even with the distracting clamor of the cheering crowd. He was getting better and better at perceiving specific targets through all the white noise out there.

 

Several minutes passed, and Matt started to wonder what was keeping his dad. He had heard the reporters and fight officials leave a while ago. It was getting late, and Matt was looking forward to celebrating his dad's victory.

 

Smash! Krak!

 

Without warning, the unmistakable sounds of violence drove all thought of celebration from his mind. With his heightened hearing, he couldn't miss the sickening racket of flesh and blood being pounded on by both heavy knuckles and heavier steel. What the heck? Matt wondered. At first he thought maybe another bout had started inside the arena, but no, this was no regulated athletic competition; this was some poor sap being walloped within an inch of his life—and beyond.

 

Matt hesitated, unsure what to do. Should he call for help? Well, that wouldn't do any good since nobody might understand his language.

 

Then he heard his father groan.

 

“Dad?” Matt's heart throbbed loudly in his chest. “Dad!”

 

Clutching his cane like weapon, Matt ran madly toward the alarming noises. The crimson robe flapped behind him like a superhero's cape as he raced around the corner of the Budokan arena.

Every sense he had left was focused on finding a way into the alley where his dad was being beaten. His blood froze as he heard the crashing blows fall silent—and a heavy body collapse onto unforgiving asphalt. No! Matt thought, terrified that he was already too late.

 

A cruel chuckle reached his ears, followed by a deep, unfamiliar voice that made Darth Vader sound like a soprano. “You should have stayed down,” the voice said sonorously.

 

Matt heard something light and insubstantial—a flower?—fall onto a groaning mass of human tissue whose heartbeat was fading fast. A powerful automotive engine revved up, and Matt listened to an unseen vehicle pulling away, its wheels splashing through puddles. The coppery tang of spilled blood assaulted his nostril, adding to the boy's growing fear and anxiety.

 

His sneakers carried him down the sidewalk, past the side of the Budokan Arena, until; finally, he sensed an opening to his left. He swung out with his cane, confirming that there was a gap there, and ran into what smelled like a dirty, trash-strewn alley. He heard the mysterious automobile disappear out the other end of the deserted back street.

 

“Dad!” His attention was riveted by the demolished carcass lying motionlessly on the ground. A puddle of blood spread outward from the body of the fallen heavyweight. Even over the rotting garbage, fresh blood, and fading exhaust fumes, he recognized his father's scent. “Oh my God—Dad!”

 

There was no heartbeat.

 

The horned robe, emblazoned with the name DEVIL MURDOCK, slipped from Matt's shoulders, fluttering in the breeze like some sort of demonic specter. Matt dropped to his knees next to his father, jack's head and shoulders and cradling them against his chest. His father's blood soaked through his knees of Matt's best pair of blue jeans, and the dead man's skull sagged against the boy's shoulder. “No, Dad, no…”

 

His fingers sought out his father's face—to no avail. Matt knew every plane and angle of his dad's face by heart, but there was nothing left to recognize, only a shapeless lump of wet, pulpy meat. Shaking fingertips searched for some trace of his dad's familiar features, but this was a stranger's face, barely even identifiable as human. “I can't—I can't see you, Dad!” he sobbed, rendered blind once more by the grisly mess that had been made of Jack Murdock's face. “I can't see you…”

 

He hugged his dad tighter, unwilling to let go, and was surprised when a solitary flower dropped into his lap. A rose, he discovered with a sniff—left behind by his father's killer?

Rage mingled with grief in Matt's tortured heart. He squeezed the rose in his fist, the thorns biting the palm of his hand. A drop of his own blood fell onto the floor of the alley, mixing with the gory puddle beneath Jack's body.

 

The Devil's red robe lay on the blacktop, only slightly out of reach.

 

Part 13

Tsuruko Aoyama walked down the street of Tokyo late at night, carrying her sword with her, and wearing her usual red and white samurai gi. She enjoyed taking long walks around the city when it's after dark and late like this; people going into their homes to sleep and no street noises such as cars driving by. It was a peaceful night, just the way Tsuruko liked it. But she never walked this long from her home before; she feels as if a spiritual energy is drawing her all the way out here.

 

But, for what reason?

 

For what purpose?

 

Tsuruko shrugged off the idea, thinking as if was nothing to worry about, and continued on down the sidewalk. With the city this quiet, she implied thoughtfully, it gives a person a chance to reminisce their thoughts without any disturbance.

 

Tsuruko started to think back a few months ago, before her engagement with her future husband, Sagura, which made her disqualified to be the next heir of the Gods' Cry School. Then, during that time, she began to worry about her little sister, Motoko, who had always admired Tsuruko; with her excellent skills and a powerful swordswoman, she wanted to be just as strong as her big sister. They had spend most of the time together, becoming inseparable like any siblings would be. But Motoko's admiration of her big sister quickly disappeared when she stumbled upon a rather…intimate moment that Tsuruko was sharing with Sagura, which was only a kiss. Tsuruko remembered the crushed look on Motoko's face when she saw her and Sagura together like that, thinking that her big sister has been easily succumbed and been taken away by a man. Motoko looked ashamed and disappointed of her big sister when Tsuruko tried to have a chance to talk to her before the youngest Aoyama sister turn and ran away.

 

During that time until the wedding day, Motoko had done nothing but avoiding Tsuruko; not even saying a word to her. Tsuruko wanted to explain to Motoko how much she love her husband and how she feels when she is around him, and how nice, gentle, and caring he is. But Motoko was in no mood to hear any of it. As if giving up on the matter, the eldest swordswoman thought that it would be best to leave her little sister to herself and wait patiently until Motoko was ready to talk to her when the time is right. Soon afterwards, she started moving into the city of Tokyo with her spouse. But, she began to think as she came upon near the Budokan Arena, was it the right decision to leave like that without trying to get her to explain how she felt about me and Sagura? Since I abandoned my destiny and put off training for awhile, could I have really disappointed Motoko when she looked up to me? What will it do to her now?

 

Her thoughts were interrupted when she heard a loud noise that sounded like an automobile engine coming from the alley next to the Budokan Arena. A black, luxurious limousine sped right out of the corner of the building, took a right turn, and zipped past her at its breakneck speed.

 

Wonder why they're in sucha hurry? the swordswoman thought as she followed her gaze at the speeding automobile before it disappear when it turn on left intersection.

 

Tsuruko turned back, facing the Budokan Arena, and started to continue on late-night walk in the city saying something about rich people and their ridiculous riots.

 

The swordswoman was walking past the alley that the limousine came from when she heard a soft whimper as if a child was crying. She looked into the darkened alley and sees a small figure that looked like young boy kneeling next to something large and humanly-shaped. Concerned, the swordswoman walked towards the sobbing young boy and when she got closer to him, she was shocked to see blood on the asphalt-floor meaning that the boy kneeling next to was a body. Oh, Lord, Tsuruko prayed silently when she can clearly see that it was a body of a middle-aged man, please let it not be this child's parent.

 

It would appear that the small crying boy didn't notice the concerned swordswoman when she stopped a few inches in front of him, but even if he did, he wouldn't care. With his hung low, gazing at the deceased person, he continued crying when Tsuruko began to speak.

 

“Little boy?” she cautiously spoke out to him.

 

Startled, the reddish-browned hair boy looked up at her, and started backing away a little. The boy looked American, but what surprised her most is that the boy was staring at her with lifeless eyes.

 

He's blind! Tsuruko realized when she stared back at him, gazing at his eyes. Sure enough, she can clearly see that the boy's pupils were blank. Now she was even more concerned than before when she kneeled in front of the shaken, frightened boy and the dead body. “It's alright, I'm not going to hurt you,” the swordswoman explained to him, trying to calm the boy. Even though she already knew that the boy might not speak the same language as her, she put that aside for the time being and started inspecting the body.

 

If she wasn't more shocked as before, she was now as the swordswoman looked at the bloody face of the deceased-man. His doughy features were now unrecognizable; his face was smashed in as if it was run over by car. The nose looked broken and twisted, his cheek bones bruised and cracked, and his lips were swollen and cut.

 

It is as if he was beaten to death with powerful brute-force, the swordswoman analyzed as she was now feeling disgusted at the sight of man-slaughtered, but who or what could have the strength to do this?

 

Tsuruko looked back the American boy, who was now having his arms wrapped protectively around his knees and his chin resting on it while shedding more tears form his eyes. “Was this person your father?” she asked him. Tsuruko scolded herself for asking such a ridiculous question. Of course he is, she thought as she felt sympathetic for the young boy, why wouldn't he cry for this man who he loved? Poor thing, he must be all alone in the world.

 

Tsuruko lifted her hand towards the boy to help, but, as if sensing her reach for him, he moved away from her, still trembling in fear.

 

The swordswoman saw this and tried to reason the blind-boy. “It's okay, she said in a voice that sounded so smooth and angelic as if trying to tell him that she was not an enemy, “you can trust me. I will take you to a safe place and make sure you are taken good care of.”

 

Even though the blind-boy couldn't understand her, he had stopped trembling and lifted up his head a little as if trying to look at Tsuruko, who is kneeling closely in front of him, as if he was sensing her aura. To him, the voice sounded so motherly and caring as if you can trust her.

 

The blind-boy started moving cautiously toward the swordswoman in front of him. Then, suddenly, to Tsuruko's surprise, he lunged forward and wrapped his small arms around her waist in a hug; he immediately began sobbing on the stranger's chest, letting it all the painful emotions out.

 

At first, Tsuruko was surprised that he would willingly trust her so quickly, then she smiled sympathetically at the poor child as she enveloped him with an embrace to comfort him. “That's it”, she counseled him as she let the boy cried on her chest. “Everything is going to be alright for now on. I promise I will take good care of you.”

 

Tsuruko was like a Guardian Angel sent from the heavens to protect the boy from any danger.