Beyond 2077

One week later

Level 189, Azimuth Tower, Corporate Sector — Neo-Gotham

At that height, the steam curling up from the streets below never reached the tall windows. The grime, the acid rain, the nighttime screams… all of it stayed trapped far below, in another social class altogether.

Inside a meeting room of an absurdly expensive, stylish law firm, enclosed by walls of polarized glass.

Seated on opposite sides of the obsidian table that cut through the room — some in designer ergonomic chairs, others in wheeled chairs they'd brought along themselves — were the four streamers who'd been attacked.

They looked like they'd just come out of a war zone: plaster casts, bandages, stitches, deep dark circles under their eyes… and broken pride.

Beside them sat their parents. It was obvious they came from different social backgrounds, judging by the style and quality of their clothes.

Their lawyers matched them: some wore immaculate, expensive suits with watches worth more than most people's salaries; others… looked far more modest.

Not all the parents present seemed comfortable with what they were doing there. About half exchanged uneasy glances; the rest, though, were determined to profit from the scandal… or take revenge for it.

At the far end of the table, sitting with his back hunched, was Terry, in his usual worn clothes. Bruised, scraped up,split lip and a with a crooked bandage covering his left eyebrow.

Next to him sat his father: wrinkled suit, days-old beard, glassy eyes. Sweat beaded on his forehead as he fiddled with his tie, wanting a drink more than anything else in the world.

They couldn't afford a lawyer, and a court-appointed one would only be assigned if the case actually went to trial. So, for this preliminary meeting — meant precisely to keep it from going that far — they had no legal representation at all.

They were alone, facing a system already stacked against them.

The lawyer — a partner at the elitist firm hosting the meeting, representing the kid with the Kiyoshi implants— rose to his feet. In the breast pocket of his jacket, a silk pocket square folded with surgical precision.

He stood up with a carefully measured theatricality, glanced at a black glass tablet, and began to read out the list in a slow, deliberate voice, making it sound even longer:

"Cranial concussion.

Broken nose.

Fractured knee.

Partial damage to the optic nerve.

More than fifty stitches.

Five days of hospitalization.

The insurance expert has already certified he'll need ongoing physiotherapy, neuromonitoring, and psychological care to get over the… 'trauma'."

He paused, letting his gaze drift across every face in the room before concluding:

"And that," he added with a faint smile, as if nothing more needed saying, "is just one of the four boys who were assaulted."

'Of course they'd pick the worst fucking one… typical,' Terry thought, a mix of anger and helplessness burning in his chest.

"I don't think it's necessary to drag this out by quoting the full hospitalization reports for all four," the lawyer went on. "So… this is the figure we consider fair to cover medical expenses and, naturally, a small extra for the physical and emotional damages suffered by my client and his friends."

After scribbling on it, he slid a slip of paper, barely larger than a business card, across the obsidian table toward Jack.

Jack took it with trembling hands, turned it over… and his face went pale when he saw the number.

"A hundred thousand eurodollars?!" he burst out, leaping to his feet. "There has to be another way to settle this…" he added, desperation cracking his voice. "We don't have that kind of money."

Even Terry was stunned, unable to stop himself from calculating just how many dumpsters and drones he'd have to scrub or repair to scrape together a sum that absurd—and how many lifetimes it would take him.

The corpo parents of the kid with the Kiyoshi implants, exchanged a glance dripping with contempt and satisfaction. The money itself meant nothing to them. They hadn't come for justice. They'd come for revenge.

For the humiliation their son had suffered—humiliation that had spread across the entire Net. Ironically, filmed and uploaded by the boy himself.

The parents dressed more modestly—maybe because of that—looked away, unable to meet Terry's eyes, a mixture of shame, pity, and their own desperate need for eddies that could help them out.

The lawyer, still standing, waited a few seconds. He knew how to read silence. Then, in a calm but cutting tone, he added:

"Of course, if we can't reach an agreement today… we'll have no choice but to take this before a judge."

He tapped the screen of his tablet. A holographic projection lit up above the table, displaying the preliminary list of charges.

Explaining only the longest possible sentences.

"We're talking about a trial for multiple aggravated assaults. The prosecutor could request a sentence of six years in a juvenile correctional facility."

He let that number hang in the air for a few seconds before driving the point home:

"And since your son is already fourteen… when he reaches the age of criminal majority at eighteen, he'd serve the rest of his sentence in Arkham."

Hearing that, the strength drained from Jack's legs, and he collapsed, defeated, into the absurdly expensive black designer chair behind him.

The lawyer watched as Jack began to sweat, tugging harder at his tie as though he couldn't breathe…

And then, in a gesture of false kindness, offered to take a ten-minute break — silently hoping Jack, desperate, would take a swig from the hip flask poking out beneath his jacket.

On a bench in a quiet hallway, far from the noise of the meeting room...

Right after taking a long, desperate swig from his hip flask, Jack spat out, his face flushed with rage:

"Fucking kid! Do you have any idea what you've done!? You think I've got the kind of money they're asking for!?"

'You think I don't know?' Terry thought, not even bothering to look at him, sitting there on the bench, eyes emptier than usual — if that was even possible — staring at the white wall across the hallway.

Thinking…

Thinking about Matt.

'I can't leave him alone with Fa— Jack.'

'I can't let him go through the same thing. Begging for work. Letting school slip. All because of one mistake…'

'Because I lost control ONCE!'

'One fucking time I didn't keep it all buried inside. One goddamn time I let it out!'

'JUST ONCE!'

'And Arkham?

'ARE YOU SERIOUS!?'

'What am I?'

'The same kind of monster who killed her!!!?'

'DON'T FUCK WITH ME!'

He screamed inwardly, without letting the inert mask on his face twitch even slightly.

But he couldn't control how tightly his fists clenched—his nails digging in until they drew blood from sheer frustration.

"Are you listening to me?!" his father roared, yanking him out of his trance by grabbing his arm and shaking him violently. When Terry still refused to answer or even look at him, the man raised his free hand.

Ready to crash it against his son's already bruised face.

Even before the blow fall, Terry had already made his decision: he was going to run away.

He would leave home, drop out of school, live on the streets, and focus solely on making money—just so Matt could keep studying.

But before the impact could happen...

Someone turned the corner of the hallway at that improbable moment and asked, in an oddly calm voice:

"Excuse me… could you tell me where the meeting room is? I was told I could find Terry McGinnis there."

Jack looked up, irritated, releasing his son's arm, which dropped back to his side like a worn-out rag.

Only to find himself face to face with a young man who looked like he'd just stepped out of college—dark brown, slightly messy hair, a simple suit, and a pair of opaque red glasses. He leaned on a white cane, a clear sign of his condition.

By then, sight loss was rare—mostly seen in beggars who couldn't afford implants.

And yet, his expression was kind, without a hint of hesitation.

"And who the hell are you?" Jack growled.

"I'm Matthew." The young man smiled for a moment as he introduced himself. "Matthew Murdock, your son's lawyer."

Turning fully toward the boy: "If you want me to be, of course."

He smiled again, as if he had somehow seen Terry nod.

-

Ten minutes later, back in the meeting room…

The senior partner didn't miss Matthew's entrance, but seeing someone so young—barely a kid in a suit—he didn't bother to adjust his strategy.

"Well," he said dryly. "Have you reached a decision?"

"Yes," Murdock replied, calmly folding his cane before unbuttoning his blazer and sitting next to Terry. "My client rejects the offer. If you want to take this to court, so be it."

The lawyer opened his mouth, but Matt continued before he could get a word in:

"In cases like this, once the media gets wind of what was streamed by your sons…"

Matthew paused. Then leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice.

"And you can be sure I'll do everything in my power to make sure every media outlet in the world gets a copy. Personally, if I have to.

Broadcasting acts of humiliation and abuse against one of the most vulnerable members of our society—a homeless elder turned into a plaything for training—won't sit well with public opinion.

That your sons were assaulted by my client… might even be seen as deserved.

In fact— I would've done the same," he added, without flinching, before continuing as if it were just another point of order. "So we're perfectly comfortable taking this to court. I'll have to move from New York to Gotham during the trial, but that won't be an issue."

Resting both hands on the table, taking on the air of a saint, Matthew fixed his attention on the lead attorney.

"Now then… I wonder if your client's employers will feel just as comfortable. After all, a PR scandal—no matter how indirect—that involves one of their employees can be… quite inconvenient for large corporations. And they tend to be very efficient at dealing with those kinds of 'nuisances.'

It's easier for them to cut ties than to weather a PR storm that might drop their stock value—even by a few cents."

For the first time during the entire meeting, the smug smiles worn by the parents of the boy with the Kiroshi implants disappeared—replaced by visible unease.

The mother reacted on impulse, as if unaccustomed to holding back, ignoring the warning glance from her lawyer:

"The whole stream was deleted!"

Matthew didn't give her room to breathe. He pulled a small pad with a braille section from his briefcase and slid it across the obsidian table.

"Aside from the clips of the assault circulating online, a user—just as outraged as my client over what your son and his friends were doing—recorded the entire stream and uploaded it to Cybertube as a public denunciation."

After another pause, letting the laughter and humiliation in the video echo softly through the room as a preview, Matthew delivered his final blow, looking each parent in the eye:

"If you'd like, I can read you some of the top comments. That way you get a better idea of what the public thinks about your parenting. Though I may have to censor a few... there are too many insults directed at you, ladies."

The lawyer, dressed in an expensive suit with a perfectly folded pocket square, lowered his gaze to his clients and slowly shook his head.

The case was lost. Then, turning to Matthew—without hiding his resignation—he asked:

"What's your counteroffer?"

Matthew smiled. Not out of arrogance, but with the calm confidence of someone ready to recite exactly what his real client had instructed.

-

When the meeting ended, as the families gathered their things and began filing out of the room, Jack—still in disbelief—approached Matthew and offered him a hand.

"Thank you for everything. Really. I don't know how you pulled it off... but thank you."

Beside him, Terry only murmured, plain and honest:

"We've got no way to pay you."

Matthew chuckled at the blunt honesty—then his smile faded as he found himself looking at the boy a second longer than normal.

He knew his story. And in Terry, he saw something familiar.

A silent nod between demons who recognize their own.

Terry sensed it too, though he couldn't explain why. He felt something equally broken behind those red-tinted lenses staring back at him.

Something that vaguely— reminded him of the lone figure he'd seen at his mother's funeral. and that first time he'd felt something similar: fleeting, but intense.

"I didn't go to law school for the money," Matthew said, his voice sincere and low.

His face shifted slightly, as if that moment of honesty cracked the mask he wore—before he slipped back into his casual, approachable tone:

"Besides, this case was covered by a youth defense program that supports kids with potential. I only took it under that condition. So you don't owe me a thing."

'Potential? What kind of bullshit is that?' Terry thought, Terry thought, not daring to argue with his savior.

Still, it bothered him.

Before leaving, Matthew pulled out a card and handed it to him.

"I hope you won't need it… but if you ever do—if you ever need legal help—don't hesitate to call me."

Terry took it and nodded silently.

-

As he exited Azimuth Tower, Matthew got into a cab, and the first thing he did was place a call through his IDn… to his real client—the one footing the bill.

When the electronic chimes finally stopped, someone on the other end listened in silence.

["It's done. The kid's clean…"]

["The deal?"]

["As requested—Terry walks. But if the minor reoffends, the case will be reopened and he'll be prosecuted for this assault as well."]

Understanding exactly what that meant, Matthew concluded: ["Basically… a second chance..."]

["Good work, counselor. The funds have already been transferred to your firm's new account."]

Matthew swallowed hard. The voice on the other end was cold, heavy—almost unreal. But he couldn't let the moment pass.

["M-Mr. Wayne, may I ask you something? It's not about the case."]

[…] Taking the silence as permission, Matthew didn't waste it.

["Why did you hire me? I've only been a lawyer for a year, and for someone like you to—"]

Bruce cut him off, dry but almost amused:

["I'm a fan of your work."]

["Any case… in particular?"]

["Yes."] His tone shifted—just slightly, enough to let a hint of respect through. ["The case of the child rescued from the trafficking ring—was well handled."]

Matthew froze. Bruce continued, as if making casual conversation:

["Although personally, I think your 'uniform' could use a bit more theatrical flair. A bandana? Feels a bit raw for these times."]

Matthew drew a deep breath, pulse quickening.

["Who are you… Mr. Wayne?"]

["Just a retired old man,"] came the reply, followed by a long breath—weighted with something like weariness or nostalgia. ["Safe trip back to Hell's Kitchen… 'Dare'-lawyer."]