Archive of Our Own

They’d be working all day. And have lunch, but even that was a kind of work. And then, the show would close and everybody would leave. Dinner and lights out. And the process would repeat the next day.

But now, it was nighttime. Lights out and the performers were alone. Free to talk or in Marci’s case, complain.

“My hair, look at my hair!”

She was lying down and attempting to finger-comb her hair — even though she didn’t have any fingers. Her paws brushed ineffectually at the locks, and she snarled as her claw snagged a few strands.

“What happened to your hair?” Peter said. He was a lot more patient than Foggy. He was young, one of the youngest in there but Foggy didn’t know his age. Peter was hunched in a dark corner of his cell, sitting in the middle of his web and swinging a couple of his legs. He’d made a sort of hanging chair out of webbing and it rocked to and fro as he swung.

“That senator’s kid threw his ice cream at me. Look at it! It’s sticky and greasy and — ugh!”

He’d never met a sphinx before her. She was beautiful, probably about six feet tall. Enormous forelegs curled in front of her, tipped with cruel claws. A lazy tail brushing the concrete floor. She was naked but she always kept her wings curled around her, to keep her warm. Her hair was blonde and usually sleek and shiny, but the ice cream was sticking a clump of hair together in a greasy rope.

“You can wash it out on bath day,” Foggy said tiredly. He’d had a bad day and he was feeling ill-tempered. You knew Wade was having a bad day too. He hadn’t made a single joke and instead was sat in his cell, muttering to himself.

“I can’t last until then!” she whined.

“Alright, I’m out. Anybody?”

Nobody else wanted to risk Marci’s irritation, so the little troop of performers fell silent. Foggy relished the silence, he found it relaxing. He was free to gaze out of the window and watch the sky. The cell only had one window and it was close to the ceiling. A tiny window with a red wooden frame. You could see a handful of the sky and dream you were out there. Foggy often dreamed of that night sky.  When he saw the sliver of moon, it made him ache for the ocean.

A couple of hours later, the cellmates were fast asleep. Except for Foggy.

“Foggy?”

Oh, except Foggy and Peter.

“Peter? You okay?”

“Yeah. Can’t sleep.”

“Me neither.”

“Can you — can you sing? Please?”

“You know I can’t carry a tune,” Foggy laughed. It was true. He couldn’t carry a tune even if he’d had as many arms as Peter did. 

“Yeah, but — what about your special singing?”

Ah. Foggy smiled. The special singing. Arcade loved that, it was a good crowd-pleaser. People would come to the show and stay hours. They’d have great fun shooting Wade in the chest or head and watching his body stitch itself back together. They’d watch Marci and answer her riddles. They’d watch Peter scuttle about the walls of his cell and spin webbing. And they’d watch Foggy sing. When he sang underwater, he sang the songs of the merfolk. 

When Foggy was sad (which was often), he’d sing a mournful tune. Couldn’t help it. He couldn’t pretend to be happy if he didn’t feel that way on the inside. So, he’d sing a warbling merfolk song of loss and fear, and the visitors would watch, rapt. Some would sniffle. Some would sob. And Arcade would beat him that night, for the customers sad. But if he’d had a good day, joking around with Wade and Marci, he’d sing a joyful tune of friendship and the visitors would laugh and cheer and hug each other.

“I’ll sing softly,” he said. “I don’t want to wake the others. I think we’ve all had a pretty sucky day.”

“Okay.”

And Foggy sang. He dunked his head underwater and took a breath. His gills flapped as he inhaled and he sang a soft, warbling song that rocked the water and made it froth. The melody was strange and off-kilter, a song about wistful wishes and the slice of moon in a window. He sang in his native tongue, merfolk vowels rolling up his throat like bubbles. He sang of a white moon and a black sky and the cold kiss of seawater. A tide that rocked you lovingly like a mother would do, a spray of sea salt and an ocean bluer than you would have dreamed possible. 

“That was nice. Thanks, Fog.” Peter clicked his fangs as he nestled deeper into his webbing, and settled down to sleep.

“Night, buddy.”

Foggy jerked awake. He swung about, and the water swished. He flapped his tail irritably and stopped flailing about. What had woken him? He was a deep sleeper, normally. He yawned, stretched his arms over his head and his fingers grazed the top of the cage. He froze. 

Somebody was watching him through the little red window.

Foggy almost screamed but the sound died in his throat. Red eyes and a terrible face were peering through the pane. He’d never seen a creature like this. His heart thumped in his chest fearfully. He’d never seen anything like it.

The face moved and he could see more of it. Lips and a jaw… a human! A human wearing a mask. He relaxed slightly. But … was it one of Arcade’s men?

The human — the man — tapped on the glass with a gloved finger. Foolishly, Foggy waved back.

“I know you probably can’t hear me,” he said but the man nodded eagerly as if he could hear him. “Oh! Wait, you can hear me. Wow. Um, are you with Arcade? Because I’m not breaking any rules, nobody said you had to sleep when it’s lights-out.”

The man shook his head.

“Oh, so you’re just a random guy — hang on. Are those horns?”

The guy ducked down so Foggy could see the top of his head. Horns, a mask. 

“Oh my God, you’re Daredevil! You are, aren’t you!”

If he was in a good mood, Arcade would come in and read out the newspaper. Foggy had seen the photos and the articles, he knew Hell’s Kitchen had a protector, but he’d never dreamed he’d actually meet him.

Daredevil nodded.

“Well, as you can probably see, I’m stuck here. We all are. We’re prisoners, we’re being kept here by this evil dude, Mr. Arcade. You stop bad guys, right? Well, you’d be doing us all a solid if you could get us out of here.”

The man paused. For one terrible second, Foggy thought he was going to walk away. Then, he punched the window. He saw the blood-red fist punch through it, with no hesitation. And glass splintered and cracked and rained down on the floor. Remarkably, nobody stirred. No alarm was triggered. Had it really been that easy?

The guy threw an arm in and then he wriggled through. The window was tiny but he somehow contorted his limbs and worked his way inside. He fell on the floor, a soft thump! And got to his feet.

“Over here,” Foggy whispered and Daredevil approached the tank. Foggy watched his gloved hands press on the glass, feeling the width of it. His hands came up to curl around the rim of the tank. “Can you see the tank?”

“I don’t see much,” Daredevil admitted. His voice was low and rough. Foggy liked it. He was so sick of slick, ringing voices like Arcade’s.

“Oh, well, sorry but I don’t think you should switch the light on. Arcade might see.”

“I don’t know what I’m—” Daredevil tapped the glass. “What is this place?”

“It’s a show. Arcade is a — well, he’s a madman but he’s also extremely rich. He used to run an amusement park but there were a lot of deaths there. Now, he runs a freak show. He has nightly viewings. We were lucky tonight, he had a prior engagement so he’s giving us a rest. People come here every night and stare at us. And sometimes, he — uh, he holds auctions.”

“Auctions?”

“Some of my friends have left. Taken away in cages. They get taken and they don’t come back.”

“You’re a mutant?” Daredevil stood on his tiptoes and felt for the top of the tank. He found the caged lid. “What are you?”

“Not a mutant, buddy! Anyway, can’t you see the big fishtail?”

“You’re a merman? I… I didn’t know merfolk existed.”

“Yeah, it’s a big wide world. Not to be abrupt, but if you could rescue me, that would be great.” 

“Sorry. I don’t know how to get you out of here. The cage is—”

“Locked, yeah. Like, a zillion padlocks.”

“If I smash the tank—”

“Somebody will definitely hear it and come running.”

“Damn it. Are you restrained? In the tank, I mean.”

“No. I’m the only one who isn’t chained up. He needs me mobile so I can swim about and do tricks.”

“Huh. I could—” Daredevil froze. “Footsteps. Down the hall.”

“No. Oh, fuck. You gotta get out of here, man. If Arcade finds you, he’ll—”

“I’m not leaving you. Just — give me a moment to think.”

Foggy was prepared to give him all the thinking time he needed, but the door burst open and a couple of Arcade’s men dashed in. Foggy looked desperately around the tank for something to throw at them, but there was nothing that could conceivably be used as a weapon. He just hoped they didn’t hurt Daredevil.

“Hey! Get away from the tank!”

Daredevil turned, just a fraction to Foggy. 

“Please don’t move,” he whispered.  He drove the club into the glass. Glass rained down and Foggy pressed himself against the back of the tank.

He felt the tank rock and the water gushed out. He fell to the floor of the tank, as water drained out. The other cellmates woke up, screaming as they were drenched with cold water. Daredevil was soaking wet, his red leather was shining like fresh blood. He grabbed Foggy’s arm and yanked him up and — Foggy was being carried.

Daredevil ran out of the room, somehow carrying Foggy in his arms like the catch of the day. Foggy was no petite thing — Arcade would often taunt him, calling him ‘roly-poly’ or ‘butterball’ but Daredevil showed no signs of weakening.

Foggy was carried up the stairs and through a big room of boxes, too stunned to even ask what was happening and then— nighttime.

Cold fresh gusted down on his face and he almost choked on his breaths. Clean air! Not filtered, stale air. He turned joyful eyes to the shops and streetlamps, the glistening wet sidewalk. He could smell rain. He couldn't see the moon but that was okay. He was out! He was free!

“We’re outside. You did it! You actually did it—”

“We have to go.”

“What? No — wait —”

But Daredevil hoisted him in his arms and took off running.

Foggy thrashed in his arms but Daredevil's arms were tight. He could no longer see Arcade's warehouse. He felt a very real bolt of panic. But panic for himself.

“Wait — stop — ugh, you’re pulling my tail — will you just — Daredevil!”

Daredevil gently lowered him to the ground. Foggy’s tail buckled underneath him and he swayed, but the man caught him. Gripped Foggy’s arms, keeping him in place. Reassuring and steady. The rough ground hurt his tail but Daredevil’s gloved hands felt smooth and warm.

“My friends are still back there.”

Daredevil said nothing.

“We have to go back for them.”

Still nothing.

“Hey, are you listening to me?”

“What do you want me to do?” Daredevil barked. “I stole you. I had no idea what I was doing. I had no time to get the others out—”

“I know that but—”

“Need to get you off the street. Somebody will see you. And then we'll both get thrown in a cell.”

"No!"

But Daredevil threw him over his shoulder and started walking. “No, we have to go back! Daredevil!” But no matter how much Foggy squirmed or pounded on Daredevil’s back with his fists, the vigilante didn’t give in. He didn’t stop walking and he didn’t drop Foggy.