A Warning from Spider-Man

"I'm a pro bono lawyer at a private firm," Matt said, his voice calm and steady, as if he were stating facts in court. "I help poor people with their cases. I often don't charge them."

"Don't charge them?" The voice laughed. "Then how do you eat?"

"Someone buys me dinner."

The laughter grew louder. Several of them were howling now.

"Man, you're so funny I almost feel bad hitting you," the first voice said. Then he paused. "But sorry. My buddies haven't had a chance to stretch their muscles in a while."

Matt heard fists clench, knuckles cracking. More than one pair.

Clearly, a few dozen dollars wouldn't satisfy thugs who made their living stealing whatever they wanted.

His body reacted in that instant. It wasn't a command from his brain, but muscle memory.

He turned aside from the first punch, raised a hand to block the second, then drove his right fist upward into the first man's chin.

Crack.

A bone popped out of place. Not in Matt's hand, but in the man's jaw.

The man screamed, staggered back two steps, struck the wall, and slid to the ground.

Matt heard him land, then heard the muffled cries coming from his mouth, as though he were trying to speak around a piece of scalding tofu.

Matt wasn't doing much better. Both his hands were already injured, and the force of the blow made his wounds hurt even worse. He could feel something warm trickling down his skin.

"Fuck! The blind guy can fight!"

"Get him!"

Footsteps rushed in from every direction.

Matt heard a fist cut through the air, a foot swing toward him, and someone pick up a club—or maybe a steel pipe.

Relying on instinct, he dodged the first punch, deflected the next kick, and caught the steel pipe on his forearm. It slammed against the bone, making him grimace in pain.

Then came a third punch. Without his enhanced senses or superhuman strength, he couldn't dodge it.

The fist struck his temple, and in an instant, his world went blank.

Not dark. Blank. An absence so complete that even darkness didn't exist, like a hard drive that had been wiped clean.

He dropped to his knees, bracing himself with both hands as his ears rang.

He heard his own heartbeat, fast and erratic, like a bird trapped in a cage. Matt hadn't felt anything like it in a long time.

He heard the men laughing, close by and shrill, like knives scraping across glass. He heard the steel pipe swing again.

This time, he couldn't block it either.

The pipe struck his back. He pitched forward, his face hitting the ground.

His lip split, and blood flowed into his mouth, salty and metallic.

His glasses had flown off somewhere. He couldn't see a thing.

He had never been able to see, but now even his ordinary hearing was affected. The sounds around him were growing indistinct.

Fists and feet rained down on him.

Outnumbered, he could only curl up on the ground with his arms over his head, like a dog whose tail had been stepped on.

He wanted to fight back, but his body wouldn't obey.

It wasn't that he lacked strength. He lacked the sense of I know where to hit.

His muscle memory remained, but his enhanced senses were gone. He could hear a fist coming, but couldn't tell where it would land. He could hear footsteps, but couldn't tell where his attackers stood. He could hear them breathing, but couldn't tell whether they were afraid or excited.

He was just a blind man being beaten in the dark, helpless and unable even to call the police.

"Stop!"

A voice suddenly rang out above him.

It sounded very young, with that clear quality peculiar to someone caught between boyhood and manhood.

Matt faintly heard a web shoot out: a thin sound of air tearing, like an arrow in flight.

Then he heard the thugs cry out and curse as something stuck to them and hauled them into the air.

Spider-Man.

Matt knew the famous masked vigilante who patrolled New York's streets. They had even worked together against Kingpin once.

Lying on the ground and struggling to catch his breath, Matt heard Spider-Man land.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa." Spider-Man's voice echoed through the alley, carrying his trademark joking tone.

"Five grown men beating up a blind guy? Were you worried you didn't look pathetic enough, or did you think every camera in New York was broken?"

No one answered.

The thugs hung in the air like a string of cured meat, their mouths sealed with webs, swaying gently in the night breeze.

Spider-Man crouched beside the battered Matt.

Matt couldn't see his face, but he could feel Spider-Man looking at him.

There was concern and curiosity in that gaze, as though Spider-Man were studying someone he found fascinating.

"Hey, man, are you okay? Do you need an ambulance?" Spider-Man asked.

"I'm fine. No... no ambulance. I can't afford one." Blood caught in Matt's throat, leaving his voice as rough as if he had a bad cold. He pushed himself upright and wiped the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Thanks."

"No problem." Spider-Man stood and brushed the dust off his knees. "But I've got to say, you're pretty brave. You can't see, and you walked through a place like this alone.

Were you bored and looking for some excitement, or did you think New York was just that safe?"

Matt said nothing.

He couldn't say he used to be Daredevil. He couldn't say he'd lost his powers. He couldn't say he'd only wanted a shortcut home and had taken a wrong turn.

"Friendly neighborhood Spider-Man tip: don't take this route again," Spider-Man said, suddenly serious. "There won't always be someone passing by at the right time. If you need to go somewhere, take a cab, ride the subway, or ask a friend to come with you.

You're not a superhero. You're not Daredevil, Punisher, or Iron Man. Don't try taking shortcuts like they do."

Matt's mouth twitched. It wasn't a smile, but the bitter look of someone thinking, Do you know who I am?

"Got it. Thanks for the warning."

After a moment's thought, Spider-Man pulled a hundred-dollar bill from an inside pocket at his waist and pressed it into Matt's hand. "Take a cab to a hospital or clinic, then go home. Don't try to save money on this."

Matt held the bill in silence.

Thinking the man didn't consider it enough, Spider-Man scratched the back of his head. "Sorry, that's all I've got on me. You know how it is. Spider-Man's money powers are limited. He's no Iron Man."

"Thank you," Matt said sincerely.

Spider-Man fired a web and swung away.

Matt heard his voice drift down from above, growing fainter:

"Hope things get better for you. Stay away from alleys."

He sat in the shadow-filled alley, clutching the bill, and remained silent for a while.

Then, enduring the pain, he got to his feet. With one hand against the wall, he made his way out of the alley step by step.

His legs shook, his back ached, and the blood on his lip had dried into a thin scab.

He walked along a Manhattan street. Warm sunlight fell on him, but he couldn't see it.

He could only hear car horns, pedestrians' footsteps, and a distant police siren.

Those sounds had once been clear and distinct to him, like a map drawn in sound.

Now they were a noisy, chaotic jumble that made his head ache.

He stood at an intersection for a long time before raising his hand to hail a cab.

"Hospital?" the driver asked, looking at the blind man who seemed to have been beaten by a mob.

Matt gave his home address. He didn't go to a hospital or back to the firm. He had plenty of medicine for injuries at home. That would be enough.

The cab merged into traffic. Matt leaned back, closed his eyes, and silently urged himself not to let a temporary setback defeat him. He had to hold fast to his convictions.

When the cab stopped, Matt paid and got out. He felt his way to his apartment, went inside, and tended to his injuries as best he could. Then he lay down on his bed.

"Don't dwell on it, Matt. Maybe when you wake up, everything you lost will be back."