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"I'm going to have to talk about it on the show, you know."
Jessica looked up from her drink and raised an eyebrow. "You talk about something on the show every day, Trish. That's the title."
"No, I mean about this." Trish jabbed her thumb irritably at the television screen in the corner of the bar. (They were drinking in what Jessica thought of as The Compromise Bar. It still served whiskey and asked no questions, but charged a little more for it in return for being cleaned every so often and having some modern accoutrements. That way, both of them were slightly uncomfortable. It worked.) The screen was tuned to CNN and although the sound was turned down, the ticker tape across the bottom was focussed solely on the recent explosion in Lagos, as though there was someone in the world who didn’t know what happened. Even Jessica, who made a point to ignore what the Manhattan supers were up to, knew about Lagos.
"Well, it's a big event. I don't know why you wouldn't talk about it, I'm sure your sensitive reading of the situation will once more charm the reviewers."
"Jessica." Trish's tone was sharp. "This is about accountability and superheroes." She hissed the last word, as though in some way mentioning it would reveal Jess to the world. "After what happened with the Punisher last summer, people are talking and saying there should be a... a list, or something. Some rules."
"Did you know there used to be a list?" Jessica said sharply, and swallowed the rest of her drink. It went down with less of a burn than she was used to. Damned Compromise Bar. "I found it when looking on a different case. You remember SHIELD? They had a list of all the people who were different and kept checks on them, and they thought that made the world safe. Killgrave wasn't on it, so that tells you how much good a list does."
"That's interesting," Trish said, her voice sliding into a neutral register.
"You're going to use that on the show, aren't you," said Jess in an equally neutral register, and signalled the bartender for another drink. "You do remember that SHIELD turned out to be evil, or whatever?"
"That's what makes it interesting," said Trish, also waving her empty glass at the barman.
--
"Welcome to Trish Talk. After the shocking events in Lagos, today we're going to be talking about accountability and whether or not our heroes need to operate under the law. As New York continues its recovery from the so-called 'Punisher' debacle, we'll be speaking with two specialists: J. Jonah Jameson, editor at the Daily Bugle, and Franklin Nelson, a lawyer from Hogarth, Chao, and Benowitz who has recently been compiling information on our own home-grown heroes and how they fit in to our existing legal structures. Now, Mr Nelson..."
"Trish, I'm going to have to stop you there. You can't call these people heroes, not after everything they've done."
"Mr Jameson, it's always interesting to have you on the show. I knew you'd bring some strong opinions and we'll get to your quite specific anti-vigilante campaign soon..."
--
"Sir, there's been a result from your media algorithm," FRIDAY said into the silence in the jet.
"Oh, god, what now," he said with a sigh and ran his hands over his eyes. They were mid-Atlantic, travelling to Vienna for the signing of the Accords. Rhodey was asleep and Romanov had elected to travel separately, which completely failed to surprise him.
"Nothing urgent, sir," FRIDAY replied, "but I thought it was interesting enough for you to be aware of. It's a live radio broadcast of Trish Talk."
"... how is this relevant?"
"They're debating the recent events in Lagos and their impact on New York. Although several media outlets have already done so, they are discussing something that links in with the algorithm on discovering potential new Avengers. Should I play it?"
"Go ahead," Tony said, waving a hand. Rhodey could - and had - slept through worse.
"... and I tell you, we need to keep a better track of these people!" The unmistakable tones of J. Jonah Jameson rattled through the jet, and Tony winced.
"Mr Jameson, these people have made errors, but they are here to protect us!"
"You'd say that, Nelson, your buddy the Punisher got you the fancy job you have now!"
"We'll get to that shortly," said Trish, sounding calm. Tony had once drank her under the table at a media gala when she was 19. He was glad she'd got over the child starlet thing. "Mr Jameson, the world has tried to keep track of these people and it hasn't worked previously - new powered people emerge all the time. Why are you so supportive of the so-called 'Sokovia Accords?'”
"Supportive?" Jameson huffed. "They don't go far enough! What do they do to stop Spider-Man?"
"Yes, you've mentioned him several times. Only your publication has really highlighted this so-called 'Spider-Man', can you talk me through what you believe you know?"
"Believe? I don't just believe, I've seen him..."
"FRIDAY, turn it off," Tony said, not ready for another patented Jameson rant. He'd been the subject of them often enough. "I know New York is swimming with vigilantes these days, who's he talking about? Display on tablet."
FRIDAY obliging pulled up several articles and YouTube clips onto Tony's tablet. "Many similar cases have emerged recently that I discarded due to lack of evidence of stability of the individual, such as the Devil of Hell's Kitchen. However, the new nature of this individual and the sudden escalation of media attention made him relevant."
"Hmm," Tony said, re-watching a grainy clip of a slight figure flinging himself around a streetlight. "FRIDAY, run trackers. Suit looks cheap, only seems to work in Queens. Set parameters accordingly. See what we can find on this Spider-Kid."
"Spider-Man."
"Yeah, that's what I said."
--
"Are you aware, Mr Jameson, of the existence of a list of these 'powered' individuals under the auspices of SHIELD?"
"High-powered isn't the same as putting on a suit and running around New York, Walker, you know that as well as me. That Daredevil guy, what's his power? Being able to hit hard and run over a rooftop? The powers are only part of the problem. We really need to control the ones who think they have a right to be heroes, powered or not.”
"The individual known as Daredevil would come under both categories, actually."
"I'm sorry, Mr Nelson? Did you just confirm that you have information on Daredevil? There's very little out there about him publically."
"I can't confirm anything, Trish - can I call you Trish? I've always been a fan. But my sources say that Daredevil, even before he put on a suit to save Hell's Kitchen, had some sort of power. And he's used that to do the best he can in a part of the city that needs him. Isn't that all we ask of any American citizen, Trish? Don't we all have the right – the responsibility? - to use our own skills and powers to improve our nation?"
"Are you his lawyer, Mr Nelson?"
"I'm not his lawyer. I can confirm that much, Trish. Am I using your name too much?"
--
"He's a good man, your friend," said Father Lantom as the broadcast segued to a discussion what the cultural impact of Hamilton could be on an international scale.
"What makes you think he's my friend anymore?" asked Matt in a dull tone of voice. He shifted awkwardly around in his chair, holding his coffee cup. He hadn't moved once during the show.
"Your lawyer, then."
Matt barked out a short laugh. "He's definitely not my lawyer. He’s not spoken to me in months."
"Mmm," said Father Lantom, and pushed the plate of muffins back over to Matt. (They were on first name terms now, after Matt had turned up in the middle of the night and confessed he had nowhere else to go that felt safe. He came around for coffee, and food, but never Mass. Father Lantom thought, perhaps, with enough of the first two he might come back around to the third.) "Does he know that?"
--
"What did you think of the show?"
"Jameson's a dickwad who besmirches the name of a good whiskey," said Jessica bluntly. Trish had persuaded her over for takeout and beer instead of a Compromise Bar, although Jessica was eating her General Tso chicken out of the container with a fork to make sure the tone was lowered.
"Of course Jameson's a dickwad, but he makes good radio. Do you know that... Spider-Man, or whatever his name is?"
Jessica put her fork down and stared sideways at Jess from the other side of the sofa. "Believe it or not, there's not actually a phone directory of weirdos in New York."
"Well, obviously not. I'd have made you give me Thor's number." Trish gently nudged Jessica with her shoulder and despite herself, Jessica quirked a smile. "You didn't answer me. What did you think of the show?"
“I noticed you didn't actually give an opinion at the end like you normally do," said Jessica slowly. "Do you think we should be on a government watch list, signed up to guidelines?"
"I thought I did, at the start, but then I kind of saw what Foggy was saying," Trish said thoughtfully.
"Foggy?" Jessica did not spit out her beer, because she was an adult who didn’t waste good liquor, but it was a close run thing. "Who the hell is Foggy? That is a crappy superhero name."
"No, no, Franklin Nelson," said Trish, waving around the hand that didn't contain chopsticks. "The lawyer guy. Likes to be called Foggy. He said that anyone with gifts and powers should use them responsibly, you know? Help people if they can, keep quiet if they can't. And I don't know that the government regulating that will help in every case. Maybe for the big guys. It's not like guidelines would stop the crazy ones doing the wrong thing and the good guys waiting for permission every time... that'll just lead to more problems, I think."
"You sound like one of those NRA whackjobs," said Jessica pointedly. "And I know for a fact they boycotted you in 2014 for your 'liberal values' on gun control."
"Well, that's different," said Trish, and now she sounded really thoughtful. "I don't know that people should just... randomly get powers the way that you did. That's like just letting anyone buy a gun. That's what led to Simpson. But people who already have them, or are born to them, and have proved that they've been doing the right thing? Why not leave them to it?"
"What, so one rule for me and for Spiderling-"
"Spider-Man-"
"-and one for anyone else who might come out of the woodwork now?"
Trish shrugged. "If they come out and start destroying things and killing people then no, they should be stopped. But last time I checked, we did that anyway. I don't think these new rules are going to help anyone."
"I think I know what your next show should be on. Invite Jameson again with your well-thought out philosophy. If you're lucky he might have a coronary live on air."
"God, can you imagine the ratings?"
--
"SPIDER-MAN: WHO VETTED HIM?"By now we have all seen the horrendous footage coming out of Berlin, as our American violence spilled out onto German soil. Our politicians fall over themselves to apologise to Chancellor Merkel. Yet even as the world watches breathlessly to see when the fugitive Captain America and so-called Winter Soldier will be apprehended, it becomes ever clearer we cannot place our faith in the 'heroes', even those who agreed to be bound by articles of the strongest international law. The UN has declared that only those under the Sokovia Accords may be used in defence against those who wish to do the world ill. The Daily Bugle has combed the records for signatories to this act, and nowhere did we see anyone who could represent Spider-Man. Are we now trusting Tony Stark - who only last year was responsible for destroying a sovereign nation - to recruit individuals with no oversight? We call on the American people…
(Daily Bugle Editorial, 7th May 2016)
--
"You're going to need a lawyer." Jeri had found it was best to start conversations like this with a statement. Small talk left people time to think. She did not have time for people to think. The spluttering at the end of the phone, which was someone not thinking, was what she preferred to hear.
"Fuck you too," said Jones, eventually. "I don't need a lawyer and if I did, I don't want you."
"You do, and good, because you're not getting me. I've hired someone to deal with you." Jeri gesticulated at her newest assistant to put her coffee down. He was called Brian and was possibly the blandest man that had ever walked the earth. He was a condition of her terms of staying at the company. Jeri loathed him.
"I still don't need a lawyer.”
"Look at the news, Jones," Jeri snapped. "They're coming after all of you now. If you don't sign up to their Accords and you use your... your whatevers, you're an international criminal."
"I don't have whatevers," said Jones, sounding distracted. The phone crackled and Jeri heard something snap.
"You just used them to break and enter for a case, didn't you."
There was a pause and a dull thump as presumably a door swung open. "You have no way to prove that."
"Good, keep up that line when you meet with Nelson."
"Nelson? Foggy Nelson?"
Jeri was surprised. Jeri was also very good at not showing surprise. "I don't believe you've met Mr Nelson?"
"Trish has. Says he's good."
"So you trust her but not me? I'm wounded." She was not wounded. "I'm going to text you times of a meeting at your office, which you will be there for, and you will meet Mr Nelson for damage control in case you get caught doing what you do."
"So... you're not telling me to stop?"
"The only thing I'm telling you do to is meet Mr Nelson for a strategy. As of now I officially don't know anything about your activities apart from your work for our company as a private investigator. Good-bye."
She put the receiver down on her phone briskly, before quickly tapping out a text message to Jessica. She sipped her coffee and made a face and tried to calculate how long it would be before she could frame Brian for skimming her expense account. She'd let him keep the profits he didn't know he'd accumulated, of course. She wasn't a monster.
She pressed the intercom. "Brian? Can you please ask Mr Nelson to step in when he has a moment?"
--
"Welcome to Trish Talk. Today we have an exclusive report from Geena Davis on the need for equality in Hollywood. First though, we're going be talking to Karen Page, a columnist at the Daily Bulletin who has been vocal about the need to understand the inner workings of our superheroes - and the need for tolerance. Karen, welcome."
"Hi, Trish. Thanks for having me here."
"Karen, it's a matter of public record that you've worked with Franklin Nelson in the past. You're linked in the public mind with the Punisher case and wider issues of so-called vigilante justice. After the shocking scenes in Vienna and Berlin this week, what's your take on the Sokovia Accords?"
"I live in Hell's Kitchen, and I was here in 2012. I saw what the Avengers brought down on us, for all the lives they saved. That was what gave us Wilson Fisk."
"Yes, and I believe it was some of your work that helped to bring him to justice?"
"I was only a very small part of that, it was Foggy and - I mean, it was Mr Nelson and Mr Murdock who took the lead on that. The point is that if it had just been the Avengers, my opinion might be different..."
--
It was only through his weekly trip to the grocery store that Frank Castle even knew Page was writing for the Daily Bulletin. He took the time to pick up the paper once a week after that, every Friday, when her column appeared, travelling to different newsstands just to be safe.
He didn't watch TV and the internet was only there to serve a purpose, but he kept a watch on Page's career and occasional appearances. He would have been hard-pressed to explain why to anyone, but then, there was no one to explain to.
"So you think that the Accords just don't work on our street level heroes?"
"That's exactly what I think, Trish. The Avengers are... gods, monsters, billionaires. I don't know. They're way above you, and me, and the police. Maybe it's right that the UN gets involved. But they're not right for the guys on the street. They're normal. I've met them, I've looked them in the eye, and they're just like you and me."
Frank snorted, very quietly. "You wish, sweetheart," he mumbled.
"The ruling has been made very clear, though; anyone with 'powers', as they're calling it, can't use them without the mandate of the UN."
"Yeah?” Karen sounded fired up, the way Castle remembered her. That was… good. “Are the UN going to get involved every time some junkie decides to mug an old lady and the only person around is Spider-Man? And I've noticed that they've quietly decided to only get involved in human affairs, they've not said anything about those aliens popping up. That's convenient."
"The ATCU, under General Talbot, have publically stated that they're supportive of the Sokovia Accords and will work within their guidelines."
"I just think, Trish, that we need to remember that all of the heroes in New York, in Hell's Kitchen, they're... just people, trying their best. Most of us are still grateful for what they do. They help us. Maybe we should try to help them, when we can."
"No helping me," said Frank very quietly, and turned off the web broadcast. He had work to do. It was very silent in the workshop. "Or them." He reached for a weapon.
--
"I'll have another, please," Matt said, and felt a dull burst of pride that his voice did not waver and he sounded like a sober, upstanding citizen.
"Have you not had enough?" asked the bartender, but Matt could hear the drink being poured anyway. The bar wasn't Josie's, but then, he hadn’t been back to Josie's for months now. It was a weekday afternoon and the place was quiet, regulars perched on stools and making very little sound.
The bartender placed the drink in front of Matt and took away the old glass. Considerately, he left it within easy reach for Matt. "There you go. Just by your right hand," he said.
"Not many people take the time for that," Matt said. Foggy had. Karen had. Not many other people did.
"Well, I try to read people's needs. Not least because you drink more, you tip more."
"I can't argue with that," Matt said, picked up the glass and waving it in the direction of the bartender in a toast. "Thanks anyway." He took a sip, savoured the burn, and put it back down. He was still earning some money as a legal advisor, but even less than Franklin & Nelson had eked out. It was enough for cheap whiskey in the afternoon, though. He didn’t deserve much more.
(Elek- she had left him some money in her will. He hadn't used it.)
There was something strange about this bartender, Matt mused. Every sound that echoed off him was more solid than he'd heard before, sounds not bouncing in the way he would expect. Everything else seemed normal, from his smell to his voice, but even for such a big man he was just... too solid. Perhaps that was the drink, though.
"Sweet Christmas," the barman breathed out suddenly, and scrabbled behind the bar. "That's a ninja."
Matt sat bolt upright. "Where? Here? Outside the bar?" He grabbed for his cane and made to run. If The Hand had found him, even here in Harlem...
"What? No. On the TV!" The bartender turned the TV up and Matt heard a breathless report of a '... already they are calling him 'The Iron Fist'...'
"Where is that in the city?" Matt demanded. If they'd gained new powers, Matt needed to know where and when. Stick was probably already there. If he moved quickly enough, if he could grab his stuff in time, if, if, if…
"I'm not sure," answered the barman. "Don't know if a ninja with a glowing hand and a green and yellow costume would be difficult to spot. I mean. Um." The barman did the awkward and embarrassed full-body shuffle Matt had heard too many times. "Well. Not difficult if you're not. You know. Blind.”
"Not the first time I've heard that, don't worry," Matt said, sinking back into the stool. Whoever this Iron Fist was, he didn't sound like he belonged to The Hand. Matt was probably safe to sit and drink in the bar for the rest of the evening.
"Well, I'm still sorry that I startled you. The report's ended now anyway," the bartender said, and turned the TV back down. "I'll pour you another. It might help you not spend the evening destroying your liver if you tell someone what brought you here."
"It won't," Matt said. "But thanks." He put his hand in his pocket and felt the slim piece of paper that had brought him here had arrived that morning. The letter had arrived in the post, and inside the envelope there was just one piece of paper. The letter itself was in Braille, although there was a business card attached to it, expensive and weighty.
Matt,
I had to attach my business card to use the company mail. I tried to point out you wouldn't be able to read it, but they insisted. Weird, right?
I got the notification from the landlord that you gave up the office, but I see from city records you're still practicing. I'm glad.
I wanted to let you know that I'm still your friend. I'm not sure if you're still my friend, but I'm still here for you, like a sap. I'm sure you've kept up to date with the news, even with your other job keeping you so busy. (I printed this myself using the translation tool you gave me but better safe than sorry) Your other job might start becoming even trickier soon. So if you... find yourself needing a lawyer, just give me a call. Get someone to read this business card to you, maybe it's good they made me attach it. I'm specialising now in people who all have second jobs.
And if you've given up the other job, well, things are still busy. So drop me a line anyway. Yes, I'm actually pitching you a job offer. We wouldn't work together, I don't think that's a good idea, but it would be nice to see you every so often. Maybe go for a drink.
I see our friend C sometimes, too. She was the one who suggested this letter.
Stay safe, Matty.
F
Matt slipped the business card into his wallet.
--
Hogarth, Chao, Benowitz and soon-to-be-Nelson had offices which were light, airy and clean. His assistants had assistants to handle his needs. Whole sub-departments that knew nothing of the law - HR, Finance, IT - quietly whirred away in the background to keep the machine running. There was a surfeit of free food.
Foggy spent a lot of time hoping the interns couldn't see him quietly piling up the food in the morning.
Truth be told, he could afford to buy it now, but when would he have the time? He'd picked up an unusual case load from Hogarth and it had... escalated, taking from a dingy PI's office in Hell's Kitchen, to a bar in Harlem, and now having to track down a ninja from one shaky YouTube video.
"Shouldn't we try and find this guy Jameson is going nuts over? Spider-Man?" he'd asked Hogarth one day. She'd snorted.
"No, he's not going to stick around. Stick to the ones we know about that have better links with Jones. We can bring him in later if we need to make a mass case.”
When pictures of Spider-Man blowing up Berlin were flashed across the world, Hogarth's lips tightened once before she nodded gracefully in defeat to Foggy. That last part was probably the scariest, all things considered.
After another successful run at the breakfast room, Foggy entered his office as quietly as possible. It was early enough that most of the other staff weren't around yet, but his assistant was trying to start earlier and earlier. That was perhaps the saddest part as well, how desperately keen she was to help. Foggy didn't have the heart to tell her that he was used to covering most of his own work and had no idea what to delegate to her. He was pretty sure she had a Master’s degree and had no intention just to use her to fetch lunch and collect laundry. He gently closed the door and sighed in relief that he'd avoided Genevieve this morning, at least.
"Good morning, Mr Nelson," said the red-headed woman sat in front of his desk. Foggy jumped and whirled around back to the door to shout for security but was stopped by the appearance of a what looked at first glance like a robot-biker growing out of the carpet.
"Shh," said the robot-biker-thing in a remarkably human voice. "Genevieve will hear. Took us long enough to swerve her, that woman is nimble.”
Foggy gaped for a second at the woman sat on one of his plush chairs that he used for client meetings. She was sat in a way that almost seemed prim, if you ignored the fact she was wearing all black and... yes, she was definitely the Black Widow.
"My appointment hours start at 9am, I'm afraid," Foggy said, with all the dignity he could muster.
"We heard you were the best man to speak to in order for some... specialist legal advice," the Black Widow answered. "My name is Natasha Romanov. This is Scott Lang. I'm sorry if we made you uncomfortable, but we're short on time."
Trying not to move too tentatively, aware that the robot-biker-man - Scott Lang? - was still stood between him and the door, Foggy moved into his office and sat behind his desk. "Okay," he said, and put the plate down on the table. He pulled put a yellow legal pad and pulled the lid off a pen. "Okay. What kind of help do you need that you're breaking into my office at 7.50am?"
"In..." She looked at her watch. "One hour and thirty-nine minutes, some very official people are going to try to arrest me for helping the fugitive Captain America and Winter Soldier evade the Sokovia Accords. In approximately one hour and forty-two minutes, they're going to notice I've gone on the run and that everyone else who helped them has gone missing too, in some cases from captivity. It's going to be an eventful morning."
Foggy raised his pen to his lips, trying to articulate a question. Before he could speak, Lang interjected. "Oh, and we need your help and keep my family safe from the law, and the families of the rest of us too," he said, and grabbed a croissant. "Good thing you bought breakfast. You might know me as Ant-Man, by the way. Or Giant-Man! I get called that now too."
Foggy bit through his pen, swore once, and picked up another one. He took a moment to stop his hands trembling, and began. "First, as your legal counsel, I have to strongly advise against you taking flight."
The Black Widow quirked an eyebrow. "You'll help us?"
"Apparently," sighed Foggy, "this is what I do now. We have one hour and thirty-seven minutes. Start talking.”