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The Razorback

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Age: 28
Player: Hank
Joined: 21-May 18
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Last Seen: Aug 14 2018, 10:10 PM
Local Time: Aug 15 2018, 02:25 PM
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Street Level

My Content
May 24 2018, 10:35 PM
It was unusual for the offices of Nelson and Murdock to be pursuing clients in the financial district of New York. After all, they tended to deal in a mix of civil cases and criminal defense, and organizations such as Worthington Industries tended to either have in house counsel or a much larger firm to represent them in civil cases.

But this wasn't a civil case. It involved the mutant scientist Hank McCoy. And the chairman of the board of this company was one of the man's oldest friends.

Matt was mainly attempting to pursue representation for the criminal case due to the fact that the substance Kick was based off of some formula that McCoy had developed. It had been developed and then stored in Worthington Industries. So getting a read of the place was a good idea, and representing McCoy would ideally let him figure out what places to stake out. For a drug like Kick was far more sophisticated than meth or heroin. It required a greater deal of sophistication to develop.

So knowing the process to develop the original formula or at least the equipment needed to create it was a good lead to start with.

And if McCoy was innocent of wrongdoing, getting an innocent man out of jail was more than worth it.

Sitting and waiting, Matt had a briefcase in one hand and his cane in the other. His sunglasses were on, mainly to keep the faint scarring around his eyes covered. It also prevented people from seeing how his eyes never really focused on items or people how most were used to.

They weren't enough to cover the slight bruising near one eye on the left side of his head. Fortunately for his activities at night, blindness gave an adequate excuse for why he had some bruises, particularly in New York where people were in a rush and tended to shove against one another if crowded.

Breathing in the scents of the various people, listening to foot steps and the bustle of business and phone calls for several of the floors, Matt reached out with his radar sense and felt the solid construction of almost everything in the room. He felt the safety glass, and felt the bitter stab of disappointment that despite his powers, he would never have a chance to actually see the view provided from the building.

His ears picked up noises of water features and desk toys, of muttered gossip and important meetings. He let them slide through him, mainly setting what the background noise of the building was so he could tell if something else happened that was out of the ordinary.

He was in his grey suit, tie neatly set and clothes selected. It was well fitted, mainly as Melvin Porter might have been a bit of a mad scientist with armor and weapons, but he was also a hell of a tailor. So something better than off the rack helped with some confidence when facing a literal captain of industry.

The fact that Matt had a hard time feeling fear likely helped as well.

But there was a small part of Murdock that was still the kid who grew up poor in Hell's Kitchen. Who kept running a tally of how much certain items in this building could help those worse off. Mind your manners, Matt chided himself. A lot of times better quality costs more but saves money in the long run. Can't apply the business tactics of the criminals you fight to a legit company.

He had contacted the administrative assistant and said that he was a lawyer wanting to talk with Mr. Worthington about the McCoy situation. She'd warned Matt that it might depend on how busy Worthington was, and Matt had smiled and said he was more than willing to wait. And had chuckled inwardly as the woman had offered to get him something to read and then caught herself. And then something to watch.

It had taken a moment to calm her as he could tell from heartbeat, increased body heat from embarrassment, and how her voice raised that she was mortified by that. But after spending a few moments chatting with the woman and assuring her it was fine, he'd politely taken a water and sat down.

So he'd waited, being sure it would be a bit after lunch before there was even a chance to talk due to the nature of most businessmen conducting some form of work over lunch.

But as the administrative assistant picked up her phone and seemed to lighten up and energize, Matt suspected the man he wanted to talk with had arrived. With any luck, I'll be able to work this McCoy case and deal with two problems at once. Get information about Kick, and remove an innocent man from custody, Matt thought with a faint smile.

May 21 2018, 09:55 PM
Weasel was in his typical position in situations like this. Namely hiding behind the bar, drinking, and cuddling his shotgun like it was charging him by the half hour as Weasel's reputation had spread among those who practiced negotiable virtue.

He was also hiding as the last time he had tried to be a badass and proclaim that the red clad lunatic get the fuck out of his bar, he'd gotten to the first part of the word 'fuck' before that stick and cord thing had taken two of his front teeth, wrapped the shotgun, yanked it away and into someone else's face, and then taken a boot to the face. All while the guy was looking the other way.

This was also part of why Weasel was a cheap son of a bitch. Cause he'd learned that one problem in Hell's Kitchen was..... you could have every bad ass on God's green Earth in the bar. Make it where a police SWAT team wouldn't barge in without the numbers to be an invading force.

But in Hell's Kitchen, sometimes a Devil came out to play.

At the moment, a biker who clocked in at around 300 lbs was trying to swing a chain at the red clad vigilante, aiming for the back of his head. A flick of a wrist snapped one of his clubs down to the floor at an angle, bouncing off and hitting a wall before striking the biker across the face. The mercenary known as Razorfist was in front of Matt, sharp blades in place of hands flashing out.

His remaining club countered one, and his better armored forearm intercepted the second with a flurry of sparks at the point of impact. Pressing closer and getting inside of the reach of those two blades as he slipped his arms around those limbs to lock them in place, Matt slammed his cowl covered forehead down three times, hearing the sound of snapping bone and the soft squish of brain bouncing around the inside of the skull.

Then he lifted the man slightly, twisting at the hips to hurl him into the path of one he heard disengaging the safety on a slightly older model handgun. Focusing on that man, he sniffed and listened as he dove for his discard half of his club. Increased heartbeat, but experienced, Matt thought. He will fire on respiratory pause.

So as soon as that man's breath stopped for a second, Matt used a table to vault over, presenting a harder target. While a handgun round wasn't technically a risk in his costume, getting hit still hurt like hell. So he took care to avoid it if at all possible.

The gun fired, with Matt taking care to block out the noise of the gunshot at that range. Tumbling over the table and down to the ground as the gun fired high, he then kicked off of the table and rolled close to the man, throwing a shovel hook lead by one of his clubs square into the man's gut as Matt rose to his feet, sidestepping as his ears and nose warned him of the upcoming vomit.

As there was a pause in the bar, Daredevil snapped the two ends of his club together. Slapping it into his left hand as he held it in his right, he used how that sound bounced around the room as another way of telling where everyone was. The slight creak of leather at a waistband along with the scent of wooden grips and two metals told him where a pistol was concealed. The very faint difference of noise hitting metal told him where blades and brass knuckles were. The mix of smells of fear and annoyance helped paint a mental picture of who was a possible threat, and who might be a problem.

Moving his head to give the appearance of looking, he tasted the chemicals of fear, depression and dismay from the crowd. He kept his radar sense feeling the people around him, wanting to feel who reacted as his hearing helped narrow down where everyone was. Keeping his breathing regular and regarding the patrons of this..... well.... dive bar would have been an upgrade of several orders of magnitude..... Daredevil calmly said "As I was saying before being briefly interrupted. Kick." Walking through the room and looking like he had not a single care of the world he casually walked by someone who suddenly had the added scent of a lot of perspiration as he mentioned Kick.

Pausing there, Matt said calmly "This drug.... is an affliction on my city. On my neighborhood. At least one person in here will know something."

The man behind him tried to be subtle. And likely would have managed it on a normal person. But the small noises of tendons and ligaments moving. Foot scrapping slightly on the floor. Attempt at slipping out a knife.


Aiming his club behind him, Matt simply extended it to staff length. Part of it wove under the forearm and over the bicep, spinning around and slipping it past the back of the man's neck. A kick to the back of the knee brought the man to his knees as the staff drove the face into the bar top.

Leaning down, Daredevil whispered "So.... what do you know about Kick considering you were thinking about stabbing me?"
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