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The man known as Daredevil did what he did best. He entered a long, dark hallway and took a listen. Rushing water was moving through pipes away from him, but they did not echo. That meant two things: he needed to move down the hallway, and the pipes were exposed. A quick sniff confirmed that he was right – the walls weren’t painted. If he had to guess based on the echoes, everything was solid concrete.
Good, how about the people? He counted the heartbeats. Four rhythms in the corridor, thudding in syncopated synchronity. Twenty feet away, a gun cocked.
Daredevil threw a club and made contact. The gun bounced to the right wall, the club to the left. The person holding it swore, but Daredevil didn’t smell any blood.
Heavy footsteps came from the person closest, and a rush of wind suggested that a fist was coming in from the left. Daredevil swung right, and the fist clearly missed. At that arc length, Daredevil had a pretty good idea where his opponent’s legs were. A quick sweep to the shins brought him down.
There was a pressure shift as the next assailant rushed forward. From the sound of twin patches of fabric scraping, the person was probably leading with his fists. Daredevil raised his arms and swept the fists aside. A round thing – something covered in a stringy mess, so probably a head – hit his ribcage, but most of the force was lost. The attacker hit the ground prone, and a kick to their head was enough to end that fight.
The gunner was next. They’d had about thirty seconds to go for their gun, so Daredevil kicked up to the right of where they had been. He hit his mark.
One more guard. Something metal scraped on something plastic, at about hip-height. There was probably a blade. If the guard was competent, they’d go for the gut. They’d set one foot forward, based on the single footstep. They were in a defensive stance. A rush of wind suggested that the knife was moving directly forward. Daredevil twisted, and he felt the fabric of a sweater sleeve rub against his stomach. He brought his arm up under the attacker’s upper arm, and it moved up. With his other hand, he pressed the forearm down quickly and efficiently. He felt the arm give way and the attacker buckle.
Good enough. He dipped to the left, picking up his club from the place it had hit the ground. He hummed, and sensed that he was close to the back door. He felt for it and found a bar he could push. He did, and entered a room dominated by small fans whirling away. They were stacked high. That many fans of that size, plus the fact that the room temperature seemed to be coming from a centralized location unrelated to the fan, told him that he was probably in a computer room. And there was one heartbeat, lower than it would be from a person standing up. The beat was fast but constant. Someone was scared to see him, but not surprised.
"Hello, Daredevil."
"Hello, Wilson."