The Nelson Shot
Part 4
It was a dream, the same dream he’d been having over and over. He was lying there and couldn’t get up, couldn’t turn over, couldn’t move his arms or legs even though someone was shouting at him and there was something he had to do, except he couldn’t. It had to be a dream. Matt had never felt so completely helpless in real life. Even when his opponents had knocked him down, bringing him close to unconsciousness, he’d still been able to bend at the joints and eventually heave himself upright again. And yet it was more real than any dream he’d ever had.
Matt never felt pain in his dreams, but now his head ached and there was a low-level throbbing in his side. He’d definitely felt worse in real life; it wasn’t enough to keep him down. And so he tried again to roll over, to at least get to his knees, but the only thing that happened was the dull ache exploding into a sharper pain. He groaned, and became aware that the dart-wound on his ass was hurting again, too, as though the dart were still in him, but at least he was lying on something soft.
Soft? Wait, just what was he lying on? He’d expected to be on the ground, maybe in a dumpster, but this … felt like a bed. Like his bed. He could feel the blanket under his fingers, and it felt like his own blanket. There was even a pillow under his head. It even smelled like his bedroom. It also smelled like Foggy and Claire, as though they’d been there recently. He listened. The sound of the city was far away, outside the window on his left and several floors down, just like in his apartment. And there, over in the kitchen, was a heartbeat. Foggy’s heartbeat.
He was home and Foggy was there, so why couldn’t he move? He tried again, gritting his teeth against the pain, and realized that something was holding him in place by the wrists and ankles. He’d been tied up. Why was he tied up? And if he was tied up, then this couldn’t be his room, and maybe Foggy wasn’t really there, either, because why would Foggy tie him to his own bed? Well, okay, he could think of an answer to that, but surely not when he was hurt and unconscious and still had his boots on?
Fisk. It could only be Fisk, or his men. Somehow they’d followed him here and tied him down, and if Foggy really was here, maybe he was a hostage now, and it was all Matt’s fault. Matt listened harder, trying to determine how many others were here, but he could only make out one heartbeat. Maybe they were alone for now. If he could get free, he could rescue Foggy and they could get out of here before the men came back.
Matt wriggled his fingers, trying to discover what they’d used to tie him, but no matter how he bent and twisted, he only succeeded in making the muscles of his hand cramp. Because his wrist was much less sensitive than his fingertips, he could only determine that his bonds were light and soft, didn’t rub like a rope, and went off in two different directions.
There were footsteps from the living room, coming towards his bed. Only one person, one with a familiar scent as well as a familiar heartbeat.
“Foggy?” he asked, just to make certain.
“Yeah, buddy, I’m here. It’s okay, go back to sleep.”
There was a creak as Foggy sat down on a chair that should have been on the other side of Matt’s bed, in the corner of the room. Why had Foggy moved the chair? Or maybe he hadn’t, maybe it had been the men, maybe one of them had sat there after he’d tied Matt up, wanting a better vantage point to make sure Matt didn’t try to get away. He didn’t know why they’d left Foggy free, but it didn’t matter, there was nobody else here for now, and the explanations could wait until they had escaped.
“Foggy, untie me, we can get out of here before they come back,” he urged.
“Before who comes back?” Foggy asked, genuinely curious, but then his tone changed to one of weary repetition. “Matt, you’re dreaming, just go back to sleep.”
“Whoever tied me down,” Matt said. “Was it’s Fisk’s men? Come on, untie me.”
“Matt, it’s okay.” Foggy reached out and started patting his arm. He sounded both worried and slightly condescending as he said again, “You’re dreaming, go back to sleep.”
“I am not dreaming, Foggy,” Matt insisted, trying to catch Foggy’s sleeve, but the angle was all wrong and he couldn’t reach. “Come on, help me out here, we can escape.”
Then he stopped at the sound of footsteps coming towards his front door. There was a quiet knock, and Foggy whispered, “Thank God,” as he got up, the chair groaning under his movement. Matt remained still, listening for a heartbeat, waiting for a telltale scent.
“Was it broken?” Foggy asked. His voice was soft, but Matt could still hear what he was saying.
“Yeah. They wanted to put me under so they could reset it, but I insisted on a local, because of …”
“Claire?” Matt called out, and Foggy hissed, “Damn, I thought he was still asleep. He keeps asking me to untie him so we can escape.”
Claire crossed the living room with Foggy behind her, and as soon as her foot touched his bedroom floor, Matt asked, “Claire, are you hurt?”
There was a short pause and then Foggy burst out, “Says the man who’s laying there with ten stitches in his side!”
“Nine,” Claire corrected, and her voice definitely sounded different, more nasal. “How do you feel, Matt?”
“Why am I tied up? And I am not dreaming,” he insisted. “I can tell you’ve been hurt. Your face? Your nose?”
“We can talk about my nose later.” Claire sat down on the side of the bed and Matt worried for just a moment that she was going to pat him on the arm as well. She didn’t, and he was grateful. But then she just sat there, and the silence became awkward.
“So, what’s going on?”
Go to Part 5
Matt never felt pain in his dreams, but now his head ached and there was a low-level throbbing in his side. He’d definitely felt worse in real life; it wasn’t enough to keep him down. And so he tried again to roll over, to at least get to his knees, but the only thing that happened was the dull ache exploding into a sharper pain. He groaned, and became aware that the dart-wound on his ass was hurting again, too, as though the dart were still in him, but at least he was lying on something soft.
Soft? Wait, just what was he lying on? He’d expected to be on the ground, maybe in a dumpster, but this … felt like a bed. Like his bed. He could feel the blanket under his fingers, and it felt like his own blanket. There was even a pillow under his head. It even smelled like his bedroom. It also smelled like Foggy and Claire, as though they’d been there recently. He listened. The sound of the city was far away, outside the window on his left and several floors down, just like in his apartment. And there, over in the kitchen, was a heartbeat. Foggy’s heartbeat.
He was home and Foggy was there, so why couldn’t he move? He tried again, gritting his teeth against the pain, and realized that something was holding him in place by the wrists and ankles. He’d been tied up. Why was he tied up? And if he was tied up, then this couldn’t be his room, and maybe Foggy wasn’t really there, either, because why would Foggy tie him to his own bed? Well, okay, he could think of an answer to that, but surely not when he was hurt and unconscious and still had his boots on?
Fisk. It could only be Fisk, or his men. Somehow they’d followed him here and tied him down, and if Foggy really was here, maybe he was a hostage now, and it was all Matt’s fault. Matt listened harder, trying to determine how many others were here, but he could only make out one heartbeat. Maybe they were alone for now. If he could get free, he could rescue Foggy and they could get out of here before the men came back.
Matt wriggled his fingers, trying to discover what they’d used to tie him, but no matter how he bent and twisted, he only succeeded in making the muscles of his hand cramp. Because his wrist was much less sensitive than his fingertips, he could only determine that his bonds were light and soft, didn’t rub like a rope, and went off in two different directions.
There were footsteps from the living room, coming towards his bed. Only one person, one with a familiar scent as well as a familiar heartbeat.
“Foggy?” he asked, just to make certain.
“Yeah, buddy, I’m here. It’s okay, go back to sleep.”
There was a creak as Foggy sat down on a chair that should have been on the other side of Matt’s bed, in the corner of the room. Why had Foggy moved the chair? Or maybe he hadn’t, maybe it had been the men, maybe one of them had sat there after he’d tied Matt up, wanting a better vantage point to make sure Matt didn’t try to get away. He didn’t know why they’d left Foggy free, but it didn’t matter, there was nobody else here for now, and the explanations could wait until they had escaped.
“Foggy, untie me, we can get out of here before they come back,” he urged.
“Before who comes back?” Foggy asked, genuinely curious, but then his tone changed to one of weary repetition. “Matt, you’re dreaming, just go back to sleep.”
“Whoever tied me down,” Matt said. “Was it’s Fisk’s men? Come on, untie me.”
“Matt, it’s okay.” Foggy reached out and started patting his arm. He sounded both worried and slightly condescending as he said again, “You’re dreaming, go back to sleep.”
“I am not dreaming, Foggy,” Matt insisted, trying to catch Foggy’s sleeve, but the angle was all wrong and he couldn’t reach. “Come on, help me out here, we can escape.”
Then he stopped at the sound of footsteps coming towards his front door. There was a quiet knock, and Foggy whispered, “Thank God,” as he got up, the chair groaning under his movement. Matt remained still, listening for a heartbeat, waiting for a telltale scent.
“Was it broken?” Foggy asked. His voice was soft, but Matt could still hear what he was saying.
“Yeah. They wanted to put me under so they could reset it, but I insisted on a local, because of …”
“Claire?” Matt called out, and Foggy hissed, “Damn, I thought he was still asleep. He keeps asking me to untie him so we can escape.”
Claire crossed the living room with Foggy behind her, and as soon as her foot touched his bedroom floor, Matt asked, “Claire, are you hurt?”
There was a short pause and then Foggy burst out, “Says the man who’s laying there with ten stitches in his side!”
“Nine,” Claire corrected, and her voice definitely sounded different, more nasal. “How do you feel, Matt?”
“Why am I tied up? And I am not dreaming,” he insisted. “I can tell you’ve been hurt. Your face? Your nose?”
“We can talk about my nose later.” Claire sat down on the side of the bed and Matt worried for just a moment that she was going to pat him on the arm as well. She didn’t, and he was grateful. But then she just sat there, and the silence became awkward.
“So, what’s going on?”
Go to Part 5