Love Hina Fan Fiction ❯ Guardian Devil ❯ Chapter 1 ( Chapter 1 )

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.

 

Love Hina: Guardian Devil

 

Chapter 1

 

Part 1

 

Seven years ago…

 

Twelve-year-old Matt Murdock winced as his finger probed the cut on his bottom lip. Ouch! he thought. That smarts. A gooey string of blood hung suspended below the split lip for a second before thinning enough to drop into the kitchen sink, joining several earlier drops in a smeary mess at the bottom of the rusty sink. Matt's eyes narrowed as he looked down at his own shed blood. Is that it for tonight, he asked the busted lip silently, or are you just going to keep dripping until my dad sees you?

 

He waited a few more moments, just to make sure the bleeding had really stopped, then turned on the cold water. He splashed some of the cool liquid against his face while the red blood swirled down the drain. Matt nodded in satisfaction as the evidence of his latest schoolyard pummeling disappeared without a trace. With luck, Dad won't even notice my lip.

 

A pile of dirty plates and dishes was stacked on the counter next to the sink, and the rest of the cramped Hell's Kitchen apartment didn't look much better. Exposed pipes and electrical wiring crisscrossed the ceiling, while a single naked light bulb hanging over the closet-sized kitchen only made it easier for Matt to see how truly dingy his surroundings were. A plastic bucket rested on the yellowed linoleum floor, catching the unwanted raindrops that dripped from the ceiling. Black plastic roach traps squatted in the corners, to not much avail; Matt caught a familiar scuttling out of the corner of his eye, but the huge brown roach vanished into a crack in the wall before the boy could find something to squash it with.

 

I'll get you next time, Matt vowed, sure that the elusive vermin would show its disgusting self again. At least Dad doesn't mind if I whack a roach.

 

A raspy snore from the living room informed him that his dad had dropped off into of the TV again. Matt momentarily considered tackling the daunting pile of dirty dishes, then decided the heck with it. He'd do them later.

 

The rain outside, visible through the cracked windows of the Murdocks' fifth-floor walk-up, had done little to relieve the oppressive humidity of this unusually hot spring afternoon. A decrepit air-conditioner labored noisily, but it was still too hot and sticky to even think about housework, no matter how urgently it might have been needed. Time for a nap, Matt thought, once I get Dad stowed away, of course.

 

He turned off the tap and yanked the chain by the light-bulb, casting the kitchen into murky shadows. Thunder boomed in the distance as Matt trudged into the living room.

 

He found his father, as usual, passed out in the big easy chair facing the TV. Foam padding peeked through the torn upholstery, and an empty six-pack rested on the bare wooden floor next to the chair. The flickering blue glow of the TV screen cast restless shadows on the cracked plaster walls.

 

No surprise, there was a boxing match on. Matt heard the ebullient voice of the announcer booming from the TV as the boy approached his dad's chair. “And the winneer, by unanimous decision, Gene `The Machine' Conlan…!”

 

Matt looked around for the remote, then shrugged and switched the tube off the old fashion way. A flash of lightning lit up the apartment, as if to replace the cathode-ray glare of the tube. He stepped carefully to avoid another plastic bucket, a mate for the one catching raindrops in the kitchen. “C'mon, Dad,” he urged mildly, tugging on his father's beefy arm. “Let's get you into bed.”

 

Jack Murdock was a large, muscular man with a boxer's build; his nose had been broken too many times to count. Despite that, his doughy features still held a hint of the good looks he had enjoyed in his youth. On his good days, you could barely see the streaks of gray creeping into his shaggy, light brown hair.

 

This was not one of his good days.

 

“Wha—who…who won?” he asked groggily, his bleary eyes struggling to focus on his son. Slumped into the easy chair's inviting cushions, his burly frame refused to budge from the chair.

 

“Conlan. By decision,” Matt answered patiently. He suggested the idea of just leaving his dad where he was, but no, he'd be more comfortable in his own bed, and less likely to wake up with a killer neck ache.

 

It wasn't easy, but Matt eventually got his father out of the chair and onto his feet. Stepping beneath his dad's drooping left arm, Matt helped him across the floor, guiding him down the nearby hallway to the smaller of the two tiny bedrooms belonging to the cramped tenement apartment. An old poster, thumb-tacked to the wall touted a long-ago boxing match between Jack “The Devil” Murdock and a tough-looking heavyweight named Tom Sweeney. The crudely mounted fight bill showed Matt's dad wearing a dark red boxing robe with two small horns sewn into the hood. The Devil had won that match by a knockout, Matt remembered proudly.

 

“Yeah, I beat `em, you know,” Jack said.

 

“I know, Dad”, Matt said “T.K.O.”

 

“That's right, Matty. You remembered.”

 

His dad's weight sagged against him as they staggered into the modest six-by-nine bedroom. At times like this, Matt wished he had a mom like other kids, more to take care of his dad than to look after Matt, but his mother, whoever she was, had exited their lives before Matt was old enough to remember. It was the one thing his dad had always refused to talk about.

 

There was barely enough room for both Matt and his father in the tiny room. Jack Murdock's bulk landed heavily on the unmade bed. His chin drooped onto his chest as he sat on the edge of the bed, more unconscious than awake. A day's worth of untrimmed stubble carpeted his listless jowls.

 

Glad to be out from under his father's heavyweight poundage, Matt knelt to pull off his dad's shoes. As he wrestled with the footwear, which they were in no hurry to let go of their respective feet, Jack Murdock opened his eyes and looked down at his son. “Hey,” he said, nodding at the fresh cut on Matt's lip “What's this?”

 

Damn, Matt thought, Busted.

 

“Nothin',” the boy mumbled.

 

His father scowled. “I told you, I don't want you fighting.”

 

“I don't fight,” Matt protested, his voice rising from the sheer injustice of it all. “I get beat up.”

 

If only Dad would let me fight back, he thought, for probably the millionth time. I'd show them. Nobody would mess with me if I gave those bullies a dose of their own medicine. His imagination savored the image of Dwayne Gleason and his buddies sporting split lips of their own, plus maybe a black eye or three. I bet I could knock Dwayne out with one punch, like Dad did to Sweeney…

 

As if he could read Matt's mind, Jack shook his head. “Matt…” He didn't sound angry, just disappointed, which was ten times worse.

 

“I tried to walk away,” matt insisted. He knew it wouldn't do any good, but he couldn't resist trying to plead his case one more time. “Just like you said. But they kept giving me shit.”

 

“Don't curse,” Jack said automatically. “What kind of shit?”

 

Matt mentally kicked himself for bringing the subject up. Now what was he supposed to say? “Um,” he began hesitantly, before fessing up to the truth.

 

“They said you work for Saint.” Matt looked at the floor, unable to meet his father's eyes. “They said you're one of his guys now.”

 

Howard Saint was the local Mob boss, and the riches man in the state. Everyone knew that, although the D.A. had never managed to prove anything or is it because they were bribed into not paying any mind to his criminal activities. In general, the police didn't bother him much. He had connections, and then some. But just to make sure that nothing illegal is traced back to him, he let one of his boys in the streets do the dirty work for him.

 

The very idea that his dad would go to work for a low-life scum-ball like Saint was enough to make Matt see red. His dad was a heavyweight, a champion, not a hood!

 

Wasn't he?

 

Anxious eyes searched Jack's face, afraid of what they might find. Please, Dad, don't let it be true…

 

His father paused before answering, almost longer than Matt could stand. Then he snorted indignantly at the very notion. “Are you kidding? Think I'd be pulling double overtime if I was working for Saint?”

 

Matt smiled, feeling an overwhelming sense of relief. I knew it wasn't so! he thought triumphantly. He felt guilty for doubting his dad, even for a second.

 

But Jack Murdock wasn't finished speaking. A somber expression came over his face, one that Matt knew all too well. Uh-oh, the boy thought. Here we go again.

 

“You gotta keep hitting the books—you hear me. I know it's rough on you sometimes, especially in this neighborhood, but it's important. You need to study hard. Be a doctor or a lawyer or something.” A trace of bitterness, born of too many years spent making a living with his fists, snuck into his voice. “Don't be like me.”

 

Matt knew this lecture by heart, but it still got to him “Dad…” he murmured, feeling embarrassed and uncomfortable. I hate it when Dad runs himself down like this.

 

Jack Murdock, fully awake now, looked around the sparsely furnished bedroom, his world-weary eyes taking in the unrelieved shabbiness of the home he had provided for them. Chipped paint peeling off the broken radiator, water stains on the ceiling, rusty iron bars over the window, for safety's sake, and the nauseating stench of a dead rat rotting somewhere inside the walls. A stack of bills, most of them marked FINAL NOTICE, piled high on a cheap plywood bureau at the end of the bed.

 

“You listen to me, Matt,” he said firmly, sounding as stubborn and determined as he had ever been in the ring, facing off against the toughest of the opponents. “You can do it. You can do anything if you're not afraid. Remember that.”

 

Matt nodded, knowing there was no arguing with his dad on this point. For a moment, he wistfully clung to the glorious prospect of whupping the tar out of Dwayne Gleason, then sighed and pushed that shining image away. Books, not brawls, he thought. I get it.

 

Even if it meant being treated like a nerd—a target—every time he stepped outside the apartment. I won't be afraid, he resolved, jabbing his sore lip with the tip of his tongue. I won't let anything scare me.

 

Or anybody.

 

“Promise me, Matt”

 

Matt knew his dad only wanted the best for him. How can I let him down after he's worked so hard to give me this chance?

 

What was an occasional split lip now and then?

 

“I promise,” he said.

 

Part 2

Matt cruised on his skateboard through the dockyards down by the Hudson River, between Thirty-fifth and Fiftieth Streets. A breeze whipped past his face, carrying the refreshing scent of the nearby water, and with his wheels beneath him, gliding over the hot asphalt as though he were flying, he felt, for the moment, as free and unfettered as a Surfer.

 

Having finished his homework early, plus three extra-credit assignments, he could enjoy the rest of the weekend with a clean conscience. The sky was clear and blue above him, and he even thought he saw part of a rainbow peeking through the towering forest of skyscrapers to his right. In short, it was an absolutely a beautiful Saturday afternoon.

 

The last he would ever see.

 

His speeding skateboard weaved between slow-moving trucks and forklifts as he zoomed up the waterfront, a rolled-up report card in his hand. Sweating longshoremen and stevedores hustled about the wharves, loading and unloading crates sacks, bales, and boxes to and from the holds of the heavily laden freighters docked along the river. Piles of lumber sat atop sturdy wooden pallets next to sprawling heaps of bagged sugar or bananas. Straining winches and cranes supported slings full of cargo and contraband, sometimes swinging over the heads of the hardhats below. Cargo checkers, armed with clipboards and ballpoint pens, scurried along the docks, trying to keep track of what was coming and going from every scow and rust-bucket.

Matt counted out the piers as he skated north; his father was supposed to be hauling produce up by Pier 80 today. He couldn't wait to show his dad the report card, which had arrived in the mail less than an hour ago.

 

The sudden glare of an arc welder being applied to a stuck warehouse door caught him by surprise, and he squealed to a halt just in time. Whoa! he thought, kicking his bound up into his hand. Even from where he was standing, the heat of the wielding torch toasted his skin. That was a close one.

 

“Hey kid!” an angry voice called out. Matt realized he wasn't the only one aware of his near collision with the incandescent torch. He turned around to see the dock supervisor, an irritable-looking bruiser with a florid red complexion, stomping toward him. “What's the matter?” he bellowed sarcastically, a clipboard full of shipping manifests tucked beneath his arm. “You blind or something? You trying to get yourself killed?”

 

Matt gulped and glanced around for his father, not entirely sure he wanted his dad to witness this encounter. A forklift trundled by, bearing a load of metal drums marked with the universal symbol for biohazardous material. Should they be messing with that stuff here? Matt wondered absently, before steeling himself to face the irate supervisor.

 

“Sorry, sir,” he said, clutching his report card like a protective talisman. To his slight relief, he saw that the trundling forklift was not being piloted by his father. “I'm just looking for my dad. Jack Murdock.”

 

Puzzlement joined impatience on the man's face. “Murdock? He ain't worked here for months.” He gestured back the way Matt had came. “Now beat it.”

 

The supervisor's words struck Matt like a kick to the gut. Months? He couldn't believe what he was hearing. But Dad said he was working here just this morning…!

 

There was no way around it. His father had lied to him, had been doing so for weeks and weeks. In his shock, the report card, which Matt had been so proud of only moments before, slipped, unnoticed and forgotten, from his fingers. The stiff paper report landed in a muddy puddle, which couldn't have cared less that Matt had scored straight A's across the board.

 

A perfect 4.0

 

Shaken to his core, the confused boy started home. Too distracted to think about riding his board, he plodded along the waterfront on foot. At the back of his troubled mind, an awful suspicion began to surface, despite his best efforts not to admit it. What's Dad been doing all this time, if he wasn't working at the dock?

 

He was only a few blocks away from the pier when a frightened male voice interrupted his anguished thoughts. “Please…no,” begged the voice, coming from a narrow alley just off Twelfth-Avenue. The obvious desperation in the stranger's voice cut through Matt's own distress, drawing him nearer to the alley. Maybe there was something he could do to help?

Rounding a corner, he peered into the alley, where he saw a pale-faced meatpacker shoved up against a wall by another man. Matt couldn't see the second man's face, but his beefy shoulders and threatening posture made it clear that the meatpacker, a smaller man wearing a stained white apron, was in trouble.

 

“Please,” he entreated the menacing thug. “You gotta tell Saint I need more time…”

 

Saint? Matt's eyes widened. He had just been thinking about Saint, sort of.

 

Saint and his father…

 

“You're all out of time,” the thug said gruffly. Despite his intimidating manner, he didn't sound angry, just tired and disappointed.

 

Matt froze in place, recognizing both the voice and its weary, rueful tone. His mouth went dry, and he had to swallow hard before speaking.

 

“Dad?”

 

The looming thug stiffened in surprise. His guilty hands fell away from the unfortunate meatpacker's shoulders, dropping limply to the bigger man's sides. His shoulders slumped, and he slowly turned around to reveal the despairing, utterly defeated face of…

 

Jack Murdock.

 

“Matt…” Shame hoarsened his voice, and he looked more miserable than Matt had ever seen him. He held out his hands in a hopeless plea for forgiveness, the same hands that been carrying out Saint's dirty work only seconds before. “I'm so sorry…”

 

Matt couldn't stand it anymore. Tears filling his eyes, he shook his head in stunned disbelief. All of a sudden, his worst fears and suspicions were coming true right before his eyes. I can't stay here, he thought frantically. I have to get away!

 

He turned and ran, ignoring his father's raspy cries. “Matt! Come back!”

 

He threw his skateboard onto the pavement and pushed off with all his strength. He didn't care which way he went, just so long as it was far away from that nightmarish alley—and the broken man chasing after him.

 

“Matt!”

 

Blinded by hot, stinging tears, he didn't even realize he was heading straight back toward the busy pier he had visited earlier. Matt's entire world had changed since then. The sky was just as bright and blue as before, but now the sunny weather seemed like a nasty joke. His formerly carefree attitude had been shattered into million jagged pieces, every one of them tearing at his heart.

 

Why didn't I realize? he thought bitterly, wiping the tears away from his eyes. How could I have been so blind?

 

A flatbed truck, heavily carrying the same metal barrels he had noticed before, suddenly appeared in his path. Brakes squealed like sirens as the truck swerved to avoid him, leaving long, diagonal skid marks atop the unyielding asphalt.

 

An oncoming forklift, its prongs up high, swerved as well, only to collide with the truck's cargo. The elevated forks tore into the ominous metal drums, releasing gallons of stored chemical waste. A slick blue-green fluid, glowing almost like neon, gushed from the ruptured barrels, spraying right into Matt's eyes.

 

“Aggh!” A horrify scream erupted from the boy's lips as the toxic spray seared his eyes. Blazing agony coursed through his optic nerves straight into his brain, which suddenly felt like a seething ball of molten lava. In a panic, he rubbed his knuckles at his eyes, trying to clear the burning liquid away, but it was no use; the noxious liquid—and the pain—were everywhere, in his nose, in his throat, inside his skull.

 

“Ohmigod!” he heard someone exclaim. “The kid!” Footsteps pounded on the pavement around him as a deafening voices surrounded him. “His eyes! Somebody get that muck out of his eyes!” Neon blackness beckoned, and Matt slipped mercifully into unconsciousness.

 

The last thing he ever saw was the bright yellow BIOHAZARD symbol stamped on the side of a toppled metal drum.