Chapter Text
1
Something Matt loved about law was its order. Building a case meant bringing some order to the chaos of conflict—organizing and analyzing the different events, facts, and perspectives to arrive at the truth. It meant planning how to wield the rules to serve justice. The rules were clear and just; they governed the same for everyone. Law was what bound a society together—it was the pact human beings forged to respect each other and coexist.
Yet, in the real world, those few holding all the power determined whom the rules applied to, and the majority were left to fend for themselves. Matt felt grim while walking back to the office.
Six months ago, ‘The Blip’ happened, and half the population of New York—and the world— disappeared instantly. Matt still had nightmares and flashbacks about that day: the thousands of laments, cries, and whimpers. Desolation reigned. And soon, many legal issues emerged for which no precedent existed—what recourse is there when an alien snaps his fingers and people fade away?
So, a lot of cases were still waiting for new legislation, appeals, or trials.
He felt eternally grateful that Foggy and Karen were expecting him at the office. God was forgiving—not only were they still alive, but they had accepted him back, despite all he had done the previous year. After Elektra's death, he had been in a very dark place—he had lost faith. To say he'd mistreated them was putting it lightly. And when Fisk was let out of jail, his hate was all that kept him alive—he didn't care who else got hurt because of that. Nevertheless, they believed in him. They stayed.
Now, there was a new Nelson, Murdock & Page sign on the door, and case by case, they were making a difference. It wasn't as hard as when they'd first started. Matt had built a reputation with his pro bono work. Karen had cultivated contacts across the city and was earning recognition for her investigation skills. Foggy was well respected by the police, especially at the 15th precinct. However, while the Blip created opportunities, it simultaneously eradicated half the population—and changed life as it had been. Including the mob rings and all the Kingpin structures still standing.
As Matt entered the office, Foggy stood up, jolly:
“Matt! Matt has arrived! Hello Matt! Shall we go anywhere else but here? Maybe even someplace where we could actually have some FUN, like a bar? You know, FUN? That thing that gives meaning to all of this?” He gestured to the table, shaking his head with that just-put-me-out-of-my-misery energy.
Karen lifted her eyes from her computer and laughed, “Hey Matt. Okay, okay, let's go” she said to Foggy.
Foggy raised his arms in victory and began sorting the files strewn across the table.
“Does anybody want to know how the hearing went?” Matt asked, amused.
“We know that it went awesome,” replied Foggy, and started mimicking an old lady's voice: “Matt brilliantly showed them how things are and he is charming and I'm going to dream of him.”
Karen scoffed, and Foggy continued, “What? She called and told us all of that! Old people deserve to live their sexuality fully.”
Matt interrupted, “I am against Mrs Simpson's sexuality being entwined with mine.” He laughed. “But regarding her case—yes, we got the compensation. And that was all that happened.”
“Well Matt, you are in luck,” said Foggy, grabbing his coat and bag, hugging Matt and guiding him to the exit. “Maybe tonight something can happen with a lady you do like because we are going out!”
2
Something Gina loved about jazz was its chaos. She liked that in English one plays an instrument, the same way one plays a game. In Spanish an instrument se toca —the direct translation would be one touches an instrument. But when playing, the imagination, the intuition, and the decision-making are wielded into creating something new—an aesthetic experience different from all the others.
A game has rules—so does music—although jazz tends to bend them. And to do that, it requires a team. Improvisation can be better or worse depending on the musician's talent, but the sound of a jazz band is greater than the sum of its components. Jazz requires all the musicians to be reading— feeling each other, synchronizing their minds and bodies in its disharmony, sharing the paths that any one of them might propose.
So, like life, the only way to make something out of chaos is by sharing it—in community. That was what Gina hoped to find when she came to New York six weeks ago. She'd been offered the chance to play in a jazz quartet by Julie, a trumpeter she’d met during a season in Rio. They had regular shows; they gave her housing for the first weeks and helped with the Visa. It was a dream.
Yet, it was a dream tainted by the harsh realities of this world.
Gina knew that this was going to happen—her flying high on energy and productivity inevitably led to her dragging low, hating life. But bipolarity, the same as every complex concept, is not that polar. There are multiple factors at play. Like having a bully-touchy-macho man as a drummer, or a sociopath mobster posing as manager.
She had to accept that taking so much work hadn’t been a great idea. But she wondered if she’d ever really had the chance to say no. She was performing four nights a week, and during the day, she had rehearsals. They were starting to record some segments too. And when she arrived, she was also asked to teach classes for the Foundation that organized the whole thing—and tutor Jema, an 18-year-old Argentine boy who had come on a scholarship to learn music.
She loved teaching, and the whole arrangement was well paid—at least by Argentinian standards. Indeed, just being an Argentinian and earning money from jazz was remarkable; she was able to send money back to her sister every month.
When Gina got to the club, she lowered the volume on her motivational monologue. Laughter was coming from the alley next to it, where Tyler, the drummer, was smoking with Sam, the pianist.
“Is this going to be the day that you let me scratch your uterus with my sticks?” was Tyler's audacious greeting.
“No, that would be the day after they've been in your colon,” she replied, her voice trailing off at the end. Her cheeks flushed—she sucked at being sassy.
Tyler arched a menacing brow, and Gina stepped into the club.
This promised to be a long night.