Concerned, maybe. Lost? Possibly, yet also unlikely with his senses. But fear is born of the unknown, of ignorance toward things that can be easily explained, things with concrete answers that have been analyzed in articles and scientific journals. Smallpox was the Devil's work until people learned it was just a virus.
Stepping out of his apartment one evening to meet up with Foggy and Karen at Josie's should have accosted him with the sounds of Hell's Kitchen: the cat that sat at the far end of the street, yowling, the whisper of grease-streaked air coiling over his skin, the police sirens, the ambulances, car tires screeching and the fetid smell of garbage bags left on the curbside. It isn't perfect and it certainly hasn't been in a long time, but it's where he's from.
Understandably, walking into a closed space with little ambient noise is...unsettling, at best. At worst, it drives a spike of panic into him. The lack of need and voices behind closed doors, the absence of filth, the scent of baked goods, a short-circuiting fuse, black tea.
This is not his city.
The braille card left for him wasn't enough to assuage him, nor the phone in his pocket that lacked both Foggy and Karen's speed-dial number settings. Stifling his mounting worry Matt feels out his surroundings, cane in hand, testing the perimeters with unprecedented cautiousness.]
Matt Murdock || Daredevil
[Very rarely is Matt afraid.
Concerned, maybe. Lost? Possibly, yet also unlikely with his senses. But fear is born of the unknown, of ignorance toward things that can be easily explained, things with concrete answers that have been analyzed in articles and scientific journals. Smallpox was the Devil's work until people learned it was just a virus.
Stepping out of his apartment one evening to meet up with Foggy and Karen at Josie's should have accosted him with the sounds of Hell's Kitchen: the cat that sat at the far end of the street, yowling, the whisper of grease-streaked air coiling over his skin, the police sirens, the ambulances, car tires screeching and the fetid smell of garbage bags left on the curbside. It isn't perfect and it certainly hasn't been in a long time, but it's where he's from.
Understandably, walking into a closed space with little ambient noise is...unsettling, at best. At worst, it drives a spike of panic into him. The lack of need and voices behind closed doors, the absence of filth, the scent of baked goods, a short-circuiting fuse, black tea.
This is not his city.
The braille card left for him wasn't enough to assuage him, nor the phone in his pocket that lacked both Foggy and Karen's speed-dial number settings. Stifling his mounting worry Matt feels out his surroundings, cane in hand, testing the perimeters with unprecedented cautiousness.]