The tunnels beneath Hell's Kitchen stink of stagnant water and decay. Abandoned subway sections from the 1930s, sealed off after a partial collapse and forgotten by everyone except the rats and the desperate. And, apparently, the Hand.
My intel on their operation came through a captured Yakuza lieutenant who broke after our "conversation" on the Brooklyn Bridge. The fear in his eyes when I dangled him by his ankle thirty stories above the East River told me everything I needed to know about my growing reputation.
These tunnels are a maze—maintenance shafts branching off into storage areas, abandoned platforms covered in decades of grime, rusted tracks disappearing into flooded sections.
According to my intel, the Hand is using a former maintenance depot converted into a smuggling hub. Not just weapons—though there are plenty. Something else the Yakuza man couldn't name but feared enough to whisper about.
I pause at a junction, detecting faint light ahead. Voices echo through the tunnels—Japanese, with occasional phrases in a language I don't recognize. Not Korean or Chinese. Something older.
Crouching behind a collapsed support beam, I count eight figures in the dimly lit chamber ahead. Black-clad operatives checking crates containing conventional weapons—AKs, Glocks, ammunition. But they're arranged in a circle around something else. Something central to the operation that commands their reverence.
A large stone chest, ornately carved with symbols that don't match any language in my database.
I ready my approach, calculating angles and attack vectors, when my spider-sense flares sharply. Something moves in the darkness above me—a presence, silent but deadly, tracking the same targets.
I'm not alone down here.
I shift position just as a figure drops from the ceiling pipes, missing me by inches. A flash of red in the darkness—not clothing, but a mask. Horns.
Oh shit, Daredevil.
He doesn't hesitate, throwing a punch aimed at my jaw with precision and force that would catch most opponents off-guard. But I'm not most opponents. I dodge, countering with a sweep that he anticipates.
"You're in the wrong tunnels," he growls, voice barely above a whisper but carrying intensity that would intimidate ordinary criminals.
"I was about to tell you the same thing," I respond, the suit's modulator making my voice an inhuman rumble.
He tilts his head slightly—listening to my heartbeat, probably. Assessing the threat. "Batman. Heard you were sticking to midtown."
"You thought wrong. The Hand doesn't respect borough boundaries. Neither do I."
His next attack comes fast—a series of strikes combining elements of several martial arts, each targeting vulnerability points with disturbing accuracy.
My god, this guy really was impressive.
I block or dodge most, but he lands a solid hit to my ribs. Enhanced or not, it stings. I respond with a palm strike that sends him skidding backward into the tunnel wall. He recovers instantly, flipping to his feet.
"You're enhanced," he says—not a question.
"And you're blind but see better than most. We done comparing notes?"
Before he can answer, my spider-sense screams danger. I tackle him sideways just as a throwing star embeds itself in the wall where his head had been. The Hand knows we're here.
"Truce?" I suggest, releasing him.
Daredevil nods grimly. "Until they're dealt with."
We burst into the chamber from different directions. My first batarang takes out the nearest guard's weapon hand, the specialized edge cutting through bone. Daredevil moves like water, his fighting style all fluid grace and precision strikes.
Mine is calculated brutality. I don't waste movement or energy. Each blow shatters something important—a knee, an elbow, a collarbone. Four go down in seconds, unable to fight with limbs bent at unnatural angles.
But these aren't ordinary thugs. These are Hand assassins—trained for generations in combat arts that make Navy SEALs or any SOF dudes look like playground bullies.
They recover fast, producing weapons that glow with faint blue energy.
What the hell...? Not electricity. Something else.
One slashes at me, the blade passing through a support beam like it's butter. Definitely not conventional weapons.
I adjust my approach, maintaining distance while launching projectiles to disarm. Two more go down with concussive batarangs to the temple. Daredevil fares well too, his heightened senses apparently warning him about the energy weapons' movements.
Then the reinforcements arrive. A side entrance I hadn't detected slides open, and a dozen more Hand operatives pour in, led by someone different—an older Japanese man in traditional clothes, carrying no visible weapons.
"The Black Sky approaches," he announces in accented English. "Prepare the artifacts for transport."
At his command, two operatives move toward the stone chest. Whatever's inside must be their priority. Which makes it mine.
I launch myself toward the chest, only to be intercepted by three Hand fighters working in perfect synchronicity. Their coordination is uncanny—like they're sharing a single mind.
As I fight through them, the older man raises his hands, and the impossible happens. The ground beneath my feet trembles, then erupts upward in stone spikes that barely miss impaling me. Not explosives or mechanical devices—the stone itself responds to his gesture.
The fuck?
Daredevil is similarly surrounded, fighting with increasing desperation as the numbers overwhelm him. The tide is turning against us, and the chest is being moved toward the new exit.
That's when she appears.
A woman in crimson and black drops from somewhere above, twin sai flashing in the dim light. Her entrance is marked not by stealth but by a scream from the Hand operative whose throat she slices in a single fluid motion.
Elektra Natchios. Not hesitating, not capturing—killing with elegant precision.
"Having fun without me, Matthew?" she calls to Daredevil, her accented voice playful despite the carnage she's creating.
"Elektra! Stop!" Daredevil shouts, but she's already moving to the next target, her weapons finding gaps in armor with unerring accuracy.
I use the distraction to break through my opponents, launching myself toward the chest. The older man—clearly some kind of leader—turns his attention to me. He gestures again, and invisible force slams into me like a wrecking ball, sending me crashing into the far wall.
I recover quickly, the serum and spider powers allowing me to shrug off what would incapacitate an ordinary human. The leader's eyes widen slightly as I rise, seemingly unharmed.
"What manner of demon are you?" he asks, genuine curiosity in his voice.
I don't answer with words. I answer by closing the distance between us faster than he can react, my fist connecting with his sternum hard enough to send him flying backward into his own men.
The momentum shifts. Between Daredevil, Elektra, and me, the Hand forces begin retreating. The leader recovers, barking orders in that strange language again. Four men grab the chest, abandoning everything else to save whatever's inside.
"The artifacts must not leave!" Daredevil shouts to me.
I'm already moving, cutting off their escape route with a precisely thrown explosive that collapses part of the tunnel before them. They turn, seeking another exit, but find Elektra blocking their path, her sai dripping with fresh blood.
"Going somewhere, boys?" she purrs.
The remaining Hand members form a protective circle around the chest and their leader. He looks at each of us in turn, assessing the situation. Then he smiles—not the reaction I expected.
"The three who were prophesied," he says cryptically. "The Devil, the Bat, and the Weapon. Your convergence was foretold centuries ago."
"Spare us the fortune cookie wisdom," I growl. "Whatever's in that box stays here."
His smile widens. "You don't even know what power you're preventing us from claiming."
He raises his hands once more, but this time I'm prepared. I launch a specialized batarang that expands into a restraint system, pinning his arms to his sides. Whatever power he has apparently requires the gestures.
With their leader neutralized, the remaining Hand members make a last desperate stand. It doesn't last long.
Afterward, as the dust settles and the unconscious (or in Elektra's case, dead) Hand members lie scattered around us, we approach the chest cautiously.
"Don't open it," Daredevil warns. "These artifacts aren't meant for anyone to use."
"What exactly is it?" I ask, examining the symbols carved into the ancient stone.
"Something the Hand has sought for centuries," Elektra answers, cleaning her sai on a fallen enemy's clothing. "The heart of the Beast they worship."
"A literal heart?" I look at her skeptically, though she can't see my expression behind the cowl.
"Metaphorical," Daredevil clarifies. "It's a source of their power—the same power that man was using against us."
I run my gauntlet's scanner over the chest. The readings make no sense—energy patterns that don't match anything in my database. Not radiation, not electricity, not any known form of energy.
"You're out of your depth, Batman," Daredevil says, sensing my confusion. "The Hand isn't just another criminal organization. They're part of something older.
"That's ironic baton boy, I've dealt with darkness before."
Elektra laughs, the sound incongruously light in the grim surroundings. "Not like this, you haven't." She approaches me, studying me with open curiosity. "Though you're not quite what you appear either, are you?"
"We need to secure this," he interrupts, placing himself between us. "There are people who know how to contain artifacts like these."
"SHIELD?" I ask.
He shakes his head. "They wouldn't understand it either. I know someone. Someone who deals with... this kind of thing."
Wait, so he does know about SHIELD before the invasion. Holy fuck.
"Take it," I decide finally. "But I want to know exactly where it ends up." I'll know regardless, the tracker I placed on Daredevil earlier will ensure of that.
"Why should we trust you with that information?" Elektra asks, though her tone suggests less suspicion than flirtation. "We know nothing about you."
"He saved my life," Daredevil admits reluctantly. "When that man attacked. I didn't sense it coming."
"How chivalrous," Elektra teases, circling me with predatory interest. "I do like a man with unexpected depths."
"Elektra," Daredevil warns, frustration evident in his voice.
She ignores him, continuing her assessment. "The costume is a bit theatrical, but what's underneath..." She reaches toward my arm, feeling the muscle beneath the armor. "Impressive."
I catch her wrist before she can touch my cowl. "Boundaries."
Rather than being offended, she seems delighted by the resistance. "Boundaries are meant to be crossed, Batman."
"Great, not mine." I release her, turning back to Daredevil. "We have a more immediate problem. There's an entire weapons cache here that needs to be dealt with."
He nods, clearly relieved by the subject change. "I can have police contacts handle the conventional weapons. But we need to check everything for more artifacts."
We spend the next hour securing the site, separating ordinary weapons from anything with unusual properties.
Throughout the process, Elektra alternates between helping and deliberately creating tension between Daredevil and me. It's clear they have history—complicated (from what I remember in the show), unresolved history—and she's using my presence to provoke reactions from him.
When we finish, Daredevil contacts someone named Stick using a communications device that looks decades old.
"They'll be secured properly," he assures me. "Away from anyone who might misuse them."
I'll find them. "Misuse" is left up to interpretation.
"Including you?" I can't help asking.
His mouth tightens. "Especially me. I want nothing to do with their power."
I believe him.
"What about Hell's Kitchen?" I ask as we prepare to go our separate ways. "This is your territory."
Personally, I don't care, I'll go anywhere in this city if I need to.
He considers this. "The Hand operates across borough lines. So can we, when necessary." He pauses. "But a heads-up when you're in my neighborhood would be appreciated."
"Fair enough."
Elektra laughs softly. "Look at you two, drawing lines on the map like it matters." She steps closer to me again. "When you tire of playing with street criminals, Batman, find me. I think we could have much more... stimulating encounters."
Daredevil's entire body tenses, though he says nothing.
"Cute, but I work alone," I tell her, though something about her dangerous grace is admittedly compelling.
"For now," she replies with absolute confidence, before melting into the shadows with a skill that rivals my own.
When she's gone, Daredevil turns to me. "Be careful with her. Elektra destroys everything she touches."
"Sounds like experience talking."
"Just good advice." He hesitates. "The Hand... they're not in any law enforcement database. Their history goes back centuries. They've been trafficking in death and mystical power since before America existed."
Well yeah, that's obvious.
"You know a lot about them."
"More than I want to." His expression darkens. "They're connected to something called the Black Sky—a weapon they believe will help them achieve their ultimate goal."
"Which is?"
"Immortality. True immortality, not just extended life. And they'll burn the world down to get it."
Now that, I didn't know.
Back at the Cave, Bernard is monitoring communications when I arrive. He looks up with his usual composed expression, though his eyebrows rise slightly at my appearance. The fight was harder than most, and it shows.
"Productive evening, sir?"
"Educational," I correct, removing the cowl. "How much do we know about mystical artifacts in this world, Bernard?"
"Mystical, sir?"
"Not advanced technology disguised as magic. Actual mystical power."
Bernard considers this with characteristic thoughtfulness. "Our intelligence gathering has focused primarily on technological and enhanced human threats. The mystical realm has remained largely unexplored, primarily due to lack of verifiable information."
"That needs to change." I pull up our intelligence database on the main screen. "Start a new file category. Priority level Alpha. Mystical threats and countermeasures."
"Very good, sir. May I ask what prompted this new direction?"
I describe the encounter with the Hand, the impossible powers displayed by their leader, and the artifacts that defied scientific explanation. Bernard listens without interruption, his expression growing increasingly concerned.
"This represents a significant blind spot in our preparations," he acknowledges when I finish. "Perhaps there are resources within Oscorp that might be redirected toward this area of research?"
I think of Dr. Warren's biotech division, already pushing boundaries between science and what some might call impossible. "Maybe. But we need to be careful. Some knowledge is dangerous in the wrong hands."
"Including ours, sir?"
The question gives me pause. "Especially ours, Bernard. Power corrupts, no matter the intention behind acquiring it."
I begin removing the suit, noting the damage that will need repair. The encounter with Daredevil and the Hand has left me with more questions than answers, but one thing is certain....
I need to find her, yes, find the Ancient One.