That's right — Maya's Spider-Man had gone commercial. A few days prior, the news about Lucius's album flying off the shelves was no secret, and in New York — commercial capital of the world — there was no shortage of sharp minds. It hadn't taken long for people to spot the enormous opportunity in the Lucius incident.
The dumber ones phoned Stark Industries trying to buy the Spider-Man trademark. The smarter ones understood that Tony Stark, playboy extraordinaire, would never personally dedicate this much effort to nightly good deeds. Whoever was behind that mask, it wasn't a Stark Industries employee.
And so, during the Shadow Clone's supermarket runs, certain gentlemen in tailored suits had started cornering her. Some wanted endorsement deals. Some wanted to be Spider-Man's agent. One director even wanted a cameo in his movie. In short, the Spider-Man IP had blown up.
As for the real Maya, she'd also discovered that Matt ate like a bottomless pit. Teenage boys could eat you out of house and home, and Matt was living proof. But Maya couldn't always count on conveniently stumbling across a robbery in progress. She wasn't about to stoop to stealing or robbing.
So she sold the ad space on the iron box at her waist, slapping on a Coca-Cola logo. A burger chain had tried to buy the spot on her back, but Maya decided that would make her look like a delivery driver — too far off-brand.
More importantly, the Coca-Cola deal already paid handsomely. Five hundred dollars per outing — meaning Maya's Shadow Clone was pulling in $500 a night.
Around a hundred grand a year, which was pocket change compared to real celebrities, but enough to keep Matt fed with late-night snacks. Better yet, the Spider-Man identity let her purchase items that would raise eyebrows for a thirteen-year-old: a compact diesel generator, a brand-new IBM PC, a full cooking set, a high-powered signal transmitter, and more.
Spider-Man had gone from makeshift to fully kitted. Not only had the communications gear been upgraded across the board, the Spider suit itself had traded its cotton fabric for high-quality spandex — a massive jump in both texture and sheen.
Maya's Sealing Scroll was pillow-sized, but its five cubic meters (177 cubic feet) of storage space really came in handy. All that gear combined still only filled a third of it.
On this particular night, Maya was watching Matt eat hotpot when something pricked her senses. She let out a quiet breath. Under Matt's puzzled gaze, she picked up a large ceramic bowl and started loading it with food.
Matt knew the current Maya was just a Shadow Clone — Shadow Clones didn't eat. He was about to ask when Maya silently tapped her chest. A rapid thud-thud-thud of heartbeats reached his ears.
Someone was coming. A master — one skilled enough to slip past Matt's hearing.
Understanding instantly, Matt returned to his lamb slices with a perfectly casual expression. Every muscle in his body relaxed. He knew he was deadweight in a fight. With Madam President already on alert, the best he could do was not drag her down.
Tok-tok-tok. The tap of a bamboo cane echoed from the stairwell below, and an old man's gravelly voice drifted up with it. "Mm, that smells wonderful. Lamb hotpot. Chrysanthemum hotpot in a clear broth — proper Chongqing-style Sichuan cooking. Not bad at all, young lady. You even know how to make Chinese food."
He was an old man with a full head of silver hair and a vigorous bearing. His face was weathered, deep grooves fanning symmetrically from the corners of his eyes and mouth. Like Matt, he wore dark sunglasses despite the late hour. Gray leather jacket on top, faded jeans below — East Asian features, but a decidedly Western air about him.
He climbed up to their level without the slightest ceremony, reached for a ceramic bowl, and helped himself to the hotpot.
"Mm. Good. Really good. Broth's fresh, meat's tender, and best of all — no chili. People like us should steer clear of spice and alcohol. Dulls the senses, you know. Look at me — I walked right up to you two, and neither of you had a clue."
Between his build and his bearing, Maya had a pretty good idea who he was. "May I ask, sir, what brings you to us?"
The blind old man speared a slab of Turkish kebab with his chopsticks, chewed it to nothing in a few bites, then grabbed the juice bottle next to Matt and took a long pull. Glug, glug, glug — half the bottle, gone.
"Burp. Ah, that's better. Look, this old blind man's had a rough go of it. I've been wanting to meet this young fellow for a while now. Problem is, you, girlie — you're a handful. Every single night you drag him up here to slave away instead of sleeping. Tonight I camped out at the base of the building, waiting and waiting, until I couldn't stand the smell anymore. Had to climb a few hundred meters of stairs just to beg some lamb and warm myself up."
He shot a glance at Maya, who was still steadily piling food into her own bowl. "Kid, if you can't actually eat, stop pretending. There wasn't much hotpot to begin with. How about you go buy some more?"
Maya set down her chopsticks, forehead twitching. "You know, sir, if you'd waited one more night, we'd have been off-duty tomorrow. You could've talked to Matt directly."
She'd figured it out. Stick — this blind old fox — had been tailing Matt for who knew how long. He'd almost certainly overheard most of their little operation. There was no point in pretending anymore.
The truth was, Stick had watched Matt go blind while saving someone, and he'd wanted to take him on as an apprentice ever since. But this world's Matt Murdock was different from his original-timeline counterpart. For one thing, his father — Jack "Blazing Fists" Murdock — was still alive. Matt had taken Maya's advice and told his dad about his abilities. Once Jack knew his son's life was essentially normal despite the blindness, he had no reason to throw a fixed fight for quick cash. This was the real world. Jack had been boxing for over a decade, and Matt wasn't a naive child. Neither of them would chase hollow, short-lived glory — especially when that glory cost you your life.
(Author's note: In the original storyline, Matt's father defied his own deal and refused to take a dive in a fixed match, for reasons that frankly never made much sense. He pocketed a small payday and paid for it with his life. Matt ended up in an orphanage.)
And then Matt had met Maya. Nightly patrols, acting as a human radar, catching criminals and rescuing civilians — all of which had brought him to Stick's attention, and through Matt, Stick had discovered the mysterious and powerful Madam President. After days of eavesdropping, the old man had concluded that this girl was bizarre but fundamentally decent. Time and again she'd walked past mountains of dirty cash without so much as a sideways glance. She had the power to take anything she wanted and still chose to live clean. That was the spirit of the chivalrous heroes of old.
That was what finally convinced him to step out and reveal himself.
Hearing Maya's jab, the old man didn't bristle. He smiled instead. "Who says I'm here for Matt? Maybe I'm here for you."
"Because you're both blind."
"Ugh..."
Stick nearly choked. She makes a good point. I genuinely don't know how to argue with that.
"Fine. Originally, yes, I only wanted to find Matt Murdock. But after watching you two for a few days, I noticed that your abilities are... unconventional, to say the least, yet your heart's in the right place. Multiple times, you've walked past enormous piles of stolen cash and kept your composure. With that kind of power, you could live like a queen, yet you choose austerity and righteousness. You never once used your gifts for ill-gotten gains. Very much in the tradition of the chivalrous knights-errant of old..."
"Hold on — could you introduce yourself first, and then just get to the point?"
The old man's praise was flattering, sure, but it was the middle of the night. Three people eating hotpot on a rooftop 300 meters (984 feet) up was already surreal enough, and this mysterious old man was making it weirder by the minute. Her cover was blown, she was irritated, and she was in no mood for his rambling.
Stick didn't take offense. If anything, his grin widened. "Impatient, aren't we? Here's the deal. I've seen that you're quite capable, but your close-quarters fighting is a total mess. You rely on nothing but speed and reflexes to overwhelm your opponents. So I wanted to ask — would you and this young man be interested in learning some proper technique? Chinese kung fu, no less."