.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

DEVIL'S ADVOCATE!

iii. "they'll make you wish you were dead."

    SILVIA WOKE TO A BRUTAL ACHE IN HER MUSCLES, permeating layers of flesh and bone until her entire body felt like a bruise, mottled in hues of black and blue. She had spent most of the previous night sparring on the deserted strip; working through attack positions again and again until mind and body detached from each other. It was a blessing whenever she managed to achieve that feeling, isolating her consciousness for a few rare hours as the distant hollow of her body wore itself to exhaustion. 

    She found it fitting, in some warped way, that one of the only places she could find solace was between the thresholds of competition and violence, sport and blood. After all, hadn't violence been following her every move since the rosy days of childhood, trailing in her wake like a bad omen? 

    But of course, even the briefest periods of peace came at some price. Now, as she navigated the streets of Hell's Kitchen, she was forced to feel the consequences of her labour; her legs, weighed down by the night's exertions, felt leaden, as though each step she took was dogged by gravity's zeal. The muscles in her arms, lean and toughened from years of training, were suffering in a similar way; tendons and sinew aching where fatigue had kissed the concealed flesh.

    Taking some form of public transport would have been less strain on her weary bones, but the mere thought of enduring a journey on the subway or in a cab made Silvia's skin crawl. She imagined other bodies, whether in small handfuls or multitudes, crowding against her own in such an enclosed space. Each body possessing a mind, a soul, memories in which she could sink into; brought under by the current, struggling against the tide's dark embrace until she drowned.

    Until she was able to fork out enough money for a car, walking was the only feasible option. 

    Dragging the back of her hand over the sheen of sweat that had settled on her forehead, Silvia winced at the heavy pain that was settling in her legs. I need to invest in a bike or some shit, she thought desperately, slowing her pace to a stop as her fellow pedestrians pressed on, each lost in the mundane complexities of their own lives. 

    Draining what was left of the morning's overpriced coffee, Silvia checked the directions she had saved to her phone, the route mapped out across the screen in vibrant red. She glanced up, searching the buildings for the right block of apartments. 

    When she had mentioned the former Union Allied employee the day before, she had tactfully failed to mention that Stewart had never agreed to meet with her, fearing protest from a certain virtuous lawyer. In fact, Stewart had no idea that he was pencilled in for a meeting with the private investigator, let alone that she was standing outside his apartment building. 

    It hadn't been difficult for her to pry into his private life, familiarising herself with the comings-and-goings of his daily routine in order to conveniently fit herself in for a brief chat. All it had taken was one tedious afternoon spent in the cafe across the road, drinking her latte at a snail's pace as she kept her eyes glued to the street outside, searching the sea of pedestrians for her target.

    Observation had served her well, giving insight into Stewart's seemingly mundane life. It hadn't been difficult to seek him out; built like an oak tree, the man stuck out like a sore thumb. Silvia had noted the slump of his broad shoulders, how he seemed desperate to shrink into himself despite his hulking stature. She had watched as he walked with his head down, most of his face concealed by the collar of his shabby coat. 

    He only left the house after nightfall, commuting through the twilit streets as the monsters of the city began to wake. He worked the night shift at some prestigious accountancy firm, patrolling the polished marble floors, the weak beam of his flashlight doing little to banish the shadows that festered around each corner. 

    The man led a solitary life, but something in his willing isolation told Silvia that he preferred things that way. 

    Were her investigative methods moral? Not very. Would Matt have something bad to say about it if he knew? Without a goddamn doubt - but that only made her want to do it more. Her mother had always insisted her vice was doing things out of pure spite, and honestly, Silvia had to agree with her. The thought of Matt's almost pious disapproval spurred her on; following in her wake like a shadow, murmuring gleeful encouragements into the shell of her ear. 

    Whatever the case, she was going to get whatever information she needed out of her unknowing informant. 

    She released a sigh. Meeting for a conversation with Stewart wasn't exceptionally high on the list of things she wanted to do, but it was a hell of a lot better than another torturous encounter within the walls of Nelson and Murdock. After finally collapsing into bed in the small hours of the morning she had fallen into a restless sleep; the few dreams she could remember marred by memories of Matt's contempt, stranded in the dark confines of her mind as he turned away from her again and again. 

    Silvia shook her head as though to dislodge water from her ears. Fuck him, she thought, but even now her venom was half-hearted. After all, vendettas were hard to maintain when there was a job to be done.

    It wasn't difficult to enter the apartment building; the ramshackle entrance hall was deserted, and as Silvia crossed the cracked tile floor she felt a sense of unease in the pit of her stomach. The place was eerie, but at least the lack of people was a blessing - the less witnesses to her affairs, the better. 

    Cursing under her breath at the torn Out of Order sign taped to the elevator door, she made a beeline for the stairwell. Thankfully she knew where Stewart's apartment was situated in the building due to her observation - the thought of knocking door-to-door until she found him made her want to hurl herself down the elevator shaft.

    The ascent to the third floor was brief, her footsteps an echoing staccato against the graffitied walls of the stairwell as she drew closer to her target. Reaching the right floor, she began to pace the lonely hallway, lights faltering overhead as apartment 13C came into view. 

    Not wasting any time, she swiftly knocked before stepping back. 

    The door cracked open, partially revealing the silhouette of a man. His face was bathed in shadow, which the weak light above did little to diminish. 

    "Eric Stewart?" She asked, watching as what appeared to be a flinch wrack his tall frame.

    He remained silent.

    "I'm Detective Flores," she tried again, the words firm. "I'm here because I believe you can help me with a case. Can I come in?"

    The man cleared his throat with a grunt. "What sort of case?" His voice was low, with a roughness to it as though his throat was coated in gravel.

    "I'm not sure it would be safe to discuss that out here." 

    Silvia watched as the man floundered in the doorway, using the close proximity as an opportunity to scrutinise him. The details she had previously collected were few, providing a smudged sketch of no real value. But now, standing across from him in the flickering light of the hallway, those blurred lines were arranging themselves into some semblance of a person.

    She had known he was fairly tall, but close up he seemed to double in size; towering over her despite his futile efforts to stoop. 

    The light - findng some small scrap of strength - ceased its stuttering, casting its weak glow over the man in the doorway. Thick bands of scar tissue - some kind of chemical burn, it seemed - covered the left side of his face like a broken mask. Although the injury seemed to be old, the skin looked raw and inflamed, while his left eye had sustained its own damage; the once-hazel colour dulled to a cloudy grey. Silvia stole a glance at his hand as it held the door, eyes roving over the rough hands, the small slivers of fingernails bitten down to the quick.

    "Okay," he said finally, an air of defeat in his voice. "Come in."

    He stepped out of view, undoing a seemingly endless series of locks that rattled like gunfire through the deserted corridor, making Silvia wince. Then the door was swinging open and she found herself being ushered inside, eyeing Stewart as he skittishly peered behind her.

    The interior of the apartment was dingy, with the faded sadness of a forgotten photograph. Silvia's eyes roved over the room, from the torn carpet to the pile of mail by the door, the broken blinds and the armchairs that wept their stuffing like dirtied tears. 

    Half-emptied bottles of spirits covered each surface in a blanket of sin; their contents festering like poison in the weak sunlight. 

    "Sit down, if you want," Stewart said sullenly, propping himself against the grubby kitchen island and folding his arms. "Although I don't think I'll be of much use."

    Silvia lowered herself into the lone dining chair, giving him a thin smile as she opened her bag. "Oh, I'm sure you'll be of some use, don't worry."

    His body language feigned indifference, but it was his eyes that gave the game away; shifting around the room like an animal in a trap.

    "You worked for Union Allied, is that correct?"

    He grunted in assent.

    "I see." Her eyebrows drew together.  "And do you remember anything from that time? Anything strange that might've gone on while you were there?" 

    "Sorry, I don't remember much from working there," the man said bluntly. "I've got a godawful memory."

    "Nothing at all? Are you sure?" 

    "I just said, I don't remember nothin', Detective."

    Pulling on his stitches with the intentions to make them bleed, she pressed on. 

    "But you worked for them for, what-" she consulted her notes, tone chiding. "Just over ten years? Surely you remember something from that time."

    "I'm telling you, I never worked on no damn accounts!" He blurted, eyes widening in acute fear as he realised what he'd said. 

    A beat of silence, then another. Silvia watched as the figure sitting across from her slumped in his seat; a dead man walking that had backed himself into a corner. 

"    ...I don't recall saying anything about accounts, Mr. Stewart." She said delicately, her words echoing with the slow deliberation of a death sentence. "Now, how about you tell me what you really did during your time with Union Allied?"

    Stewart cringed away from her piercing gaze, wringing his calloused hands. "Listen," he beseeched, "I can't tell you what you need to know, I'm sorry."

    "That wasn't a suggestion," she said sharply. "I don't have time for this, and neither do my clients."

    "I can't tell you anything!"

    Silvia leaned forward. "Listen to me, and listen properly. You're the sole remaining employee out of countless others. Don't you understand how valuable you are? You're the last chance we might have in taking those corrupt bastards down." 

    "And if I talk, I'll end up the same fucking way as the others!" Stewart snapped. "He had 'em hit, every last goddamn one!"

    Silence stretched between the two, settling like a blanket of fog as Silvia's mind raced to keep up. 

    "Who's 'he'?"  she asked slowly, heart beginning to beat a frantic rhythm in her chest.

    The man put his head in his hands. "We weren't supposed to say his name," he groaned, the words pulled from his chest as though he were in pain. "God fucking damnit, I thought I was finished with all this shit."

    "Mr. S-" She corrected herself, lowering her voice to a murmur. "Eric. I know this must be difficult for you, but whatever the hell is going on with your old employer is serious. People are getting hurt... people are dying. You might be the only chance we've got."

    Slowly, Stewart removed his hands from his scarred face. Tiredness was written in every piece of him; his eyes, his body language. Exhaustion that could only be found when the prey is sick of being hunted. 

    "Fisk," he said, grimacing as though swallowing broken glass.

    She shook her head. "Sorry, who?" 

    "You asked me who did it... who killed 'em. Wilson fucking Fisk."

    Silvia stared at him, allowing herself a few seconds of disbelief before fishing a battered notepad out of her jacket pocket. "Fisk... What can you tell me about him?" 

    "Not much... I uh, I've tried my best to forget my time with Union Allied."

    She glanced at the collection of bottles clustered around the tiny living space, their brightly coloured labels sickeningly vibrant in the grey landscape of the room. 

    "I see," she said softly.

    Stewart stiffened slightly, succumbing to the turmoil being waged within his mind as Silvia looked on. "I... I might have something that can help, though. Wait here."

    Pushing himself away from the counter, he crossed the tiny living room in three strides before disappearing through another door. A few seconds passed before the man returned, clutching something in one gnarled hand.

    "Here," he tossed the item onto the table with a muffled thud, folding his arms once more as Silvia's gloved hands reached out, burning with curiosity.

    "A journal?"

    "I was never much good at writing in it," he muttered, almost ruefully. "But it's better than nothin'."

    "It's better than that, Mr. Stewart... Thank you. My clients will appreciate it, really." 

    He watched as she flicked through the pages of the journal, the yellowed paper whispering softly. "This'd mark me as an accomplice, right? I ain't going to jail... no way in hell I am." 

    Silvia sighed, sympathy softening her tone in spite of it all. "Look, I'm not here to make moral judgements, okay? I don't care what you did, that's ancient history. You won't be held accountable for anything if this gets taken to court." 

    Stewart brought himself to meet her eyes, a hulking giant of a man reduced to a mess at the hands of his own terror. "Really?"

    "You have my word, Mr. Stewart. Think of yourself as..." she waved one gloved hand, as though trying to pluck the word from thin air. "...An anonymous informant. I'll make sure nothing happens to you." 

    Relief washed over him, dizzying in its release, an intoxicating thing. "Thank you... Detective." The words were quiet, pulled from the man's throat in a strangled murmur. 

    "Of course," Silvia got to her feet, packing the journal away with her notes, handling the piece of evidence as though it were priceless. She moved to open the door, halting as the man spoke. 

    "One more thing, Detective,"

    "...Yes?"

    "You don't know who you're messing with, Ms. Flores." he warned gravely, regarding her as though the hangman's noose was already tightening around her neck. 

    She froze, fingertips stopping just inches away from the front door's handle. "I wouldn't worry," she replied, turning back to face the fearful man. The words were a consolation, but to who exactly? To Stewart, or herself? "I highly doubt they'd go so far as to kill me."

    "No, no... you don't get it," he shook his head desperately, the ruined skin on his face tightening as he grimaced. Raising one hand, he pointed at his scarred complexion, the thick ropes of scorched flesh that ran beneath the rumpled collar of his shirt. His one good eye was blazing now, while the other regarded her sightlessly; its milky iris clouded and dull. "They won't kill you, no. That's not how they operate."

    Stewart moved towards her, dragging the collar of his shirt down as Silvia's stomach lurched. The scar tissue snaked down his neck, completely covering the sliver of chest visible, and she didn't have to look to know the worst of it was concealed beneath his clothes. 

    "Disgusting, isn't it? They did this to me... said if I talked about what I saw when I worked for 'em, they'd find me and finish the job." He laughed then, a mirthless sound that seemed to echo in the empty apartment. "They won't kill you, no. That would be considered mercy, and these people aren't familiar with the word."

    His next words were barely audible, with the menacing weight of a deep silence before the storm. 

    "Stay away from Union Allied if you know what's good for you, Detective. Because if they find out you've been poking around in their affairs, well," his mouth twisted as though he was tasting something bitter. "Let's just say they'll make you wish you were dead."

— ¤ —

    After returning to the dreary comfort of her own office, Silvia had sat in silence; steepled fingers resting on chapped lips as her thoughts threatened to consume her.

    Stewart's journal had sat on the table before her, its presence an oppressive shadow in the corner of her eye. 

    One glove lying discarded amidst the clutter, she had been battling to bring herself to touch the cracked leather cover for what felt like an hour. The one-sided stand off had come to an abrupt end when, in a fit of frustration, she swept the notebook onto the floor with the other hand.

    This case was, without a doubt, the riskiest one yet. What sort of horrors would she uncover as soon as her skin made contact with the journal? Surely the echoes would affect her in worse ways than she had experienced during her career; enough to make infidelities and cold cases seem like lighthearted fun.

    Silvia's head jerked up as her phone began to shake, the endless vibrations heralding it as an incoming call. Peering at the screen, she regarded the caller I.D blearily before answering. "Foggy? Is everything okay?" 

    "Everything's good! Karen and I were just wondering if you wanted to go get a couple of drinks? I'm showing her all the best bars in town and I saved the best for last...?" he trailed off, hope hanging onto the end of his sentence.

     "I don't know, Foggy... It's pretty late."

    "What if I told you Matt's not coming, and I'll pay?"

    Silvia glanced around the dark office, taking in each miserable detail before resting her gaze on the notebook. 

    "Okay, meet you in five."

    As a rule, Silvia could never bring herself to accept non work-related invitations, fearing it would be too distracting, too dangerous. But she had always found it hard to say no to Foggy, and before she knew it she found herself perched on a barstool, sitting across from him and Karen as rock music blared on a broken speaker.

    "Ah, Josie's," The former sighed contentedly, raising his eyebrows as he poured himself another drink. "Isn't this so much better than spending the night doing paperwork?"

    Silvia took in the dive-bar's seedy atmosphere, doing her best to ignore the stains on her glass as she took a sip. "...It's got character, that's for sure."

    "I know, right? Matt and I have gotten loads of these guys reduced sentences in the slammer, they're practically old friends at this point."

    The two women shared a sideways glance, alarmed at the lack of irony in his voice.

    "That's...nice?" Karen tried. 

    As Foggy refilled the brunette's glass, she scrutinised its contents, eyes widening as a dark shape sloshed around the bottle. 

    "Um... what the hell is that?"

    "Oh, this?" he waved her off. "It's an eel... Well, we think."

    "We're gonna get to the bottom of the bottle and find out," Karen added cheerily, knocking back her own liquor without a bother.

    Silvia stared at them for a second, before shrugging. "I mean neither of you have keeled over since I got here, so I guess it's fine. Probably." 

    She reached out to take her drink, cradling it gently as the cold seeped through the material of her gloves. Swallowing another mouthful of the fiery liquid, she turned to face Karen, raising her eyebrows as the blonde's curious gaze followed her hands. 

    "Oh- I didn't mean to stare, I just-" Karen said, stumbling over her words as a blush crept over her freckled cheeks. "I was just wondering... why do you wear them? I haven't seen you without them on since we first met."

    "C'mon, Karen," Foggy said hastily, catching Silvia's eye over the rim of his glass. His tone was gently chiding, but there was an air of panic faintly detectable underneath the usual good humour. "How about we get another round of shots?"

    "It's fine, really," Silvia raised her hands in a conciliatory gesture. "She's just curious. I don't mind telling her."

    "Are you sure, Vi? You don't have to, I promise," his words were anxious, blue eyes studying her own, trying to read her inpenetrable thoughts as he usually did. 

    Under usual circumstances, had she been sober, Silvia would have lied, or perhaps tried to evade the question completely. It was a game she had been playing for most of her adult life; an endless whirlwind of bullshit excuses, of lies that stained her soul with each casual deception.

    But the whiskey had worked too well, and she was too exhausted to spin more lies tonight. A truth serum of honeyed fire, the drinks had been chipping away at her defences all evening; chains of cold iron falling away with each round, every refill.

    It was quick to unlock the chambers of her heart as truth, as tangible as a whispered threat upon her skin, rose like a waking beast to shed its shackles. 

    "I don't know if Foggy already told you this," she shrugged, gaze fixed on the glass of spirits that swirled at her fingertips. "But when I was a kid my uh... my dad was murdered." She surpressed a wince at how harsh the words sounded, unable to meet the blonde's eyes. 

    But really, was there even a way to speak about her childhood that wasn't harsh? To turn her own abrasive memories over in sensitive palms, their barbed edges hooking into the flesh she had so desperately hidden from the world?

    Reminiscence was fatal enough to draw blood, Silvia knew that. But the taste of alcohol had always drawn honesty from her lips like poison from a wound; once she started, she wouldn't be able to stop, even if she wanted to. 

    "Jesus, Silvia," Karen let out a shaky breath. "I'm sorry, I had no idea-"

    The other woman waved her off, taking another sip of her drink. She revelled in the taste of it, how it burned her throat like swallowing a lit match, scorching the tender tissue of her stomach and setting it ablaze. "It's good to talk about stuff like this, right? That's what my grief counsellor used to say, anyway."

    The others shared a swift glance, thinly veiled concern etched across their faces.

    "I was nine," Silvia continued, staring into the depths of her glass as her mind ventured far away from the dingy bar, the music and chatter becoming muffled as she was drawn into the cruel clutches of the past. "He wanted to bring me out for the day, to celebrate how I did in some stupid test... history, I think." 

    The faintest ghost of a smile graced her lips; the pride Sebastian Flores had shown just as electric as it had been all those years ago. Even though the memory had been reduced to frayed tatters, the tiniest of details lost to time, it never failed to bring some faded comfort. 

    Had he lived, there was no doubt that her father's pride would have grown with her; school recitals and projects replaced by a college diploma and career opportunities. But he had never gotten the chance to see her move on from those elementary school tests, nor had he seen her graduate high school. Hell, he hadn't even gotten to see her reach double digits, welcomed into her tenth year around the sun in a herald of brightly-coloured candles and confetti.

    "He was a police detective, you see." she continued. "I always said I wanted to be like him when I grew up... Thought when I was older we'd be able to solve cases together,"

    Karen swallowed, the breath hitching in her throat. "And- what happened to him?"

    "We were stopped in traffic on the way to the museum," the brunette whispered. "And a man knocked on the window."

    It was all coming back to her; terribly vivid as she relived the catalyst that had thrown her into a nightmare she had yet to wake from. Silvia remembered how the sun had illuminated the whole street, beating down upon the cars as they idled in uniform lines. Singing along to the radio with her dad, the pair screaming the lyrics to 'Stand by Me' into the humid air, the cracked leather seat burning the backs of her legs.

    "His face was covered by a bandana... you could just barely see his eyes."

    She could see him clear as day, the harbringer of death dressed all in black, about to end life as she knew it with a single gunshot. 

    "My dad rolled down the window, thought the guy needed help, you know?" Her lips pulled into a mirthless smile. "Mom always did say he was too soft. Too trusting."

    Some part of her knew she should have stopped there, but she had already gone too far; plummeting past the point of no return into honesty's killing embrace.

    "He shot him right there in broad daylight. I was in the car with him for a while before the emergency services got to us, too scared to move." she said quietly,  thinking of her father's cold gaze and ashen skin, staring at her from the accusatory darkness where his eye had been. "Ever since then I can't... Well, I can't stand touching people."

    Half-truths are better than lies, she thought wryly. Best to leave out the part where I say I'm a freak.

    "Well," Silvia dragged the back of her hand over her mouth, eyes flitting from one face to the next. "The next round's on me, I think."

    Without waiting for a reply she slid from her stool in one deft movement, graciously making her escape over to the rowdy chaos of the bar.

    "Jesus, Foggy," Karen whispered, eyes trained on their friend's retreating form, her own drink abandoned on the table. "Why didn't you tell me that earlier?"

    "It wasn't my story to tell," Foggy said simply, setting his glass down with a sigh. "Plus, she never told me the full thing. Matt and I knew something messed up had happened from the snippets she mentioned, but..." he broke off, smiling sadly.

    "But what?"

    "That's the thing about Silvia, I guess. She'll try her damn hardest to isolate herself from everyone, even if it kills her."

author's note!

me updating past the second chapter mark? it's a genuine miracle i think. anyways, pls let me know what you think of this chapter!! i'm trying to get better at writing dialogue so this was good practice :')

(also silvia oversharing as soon as she has a few drinks,,,,,, stormi, you're just like mommy, baby!) throw foggy and karen into the mix? chaos trio methinks. this is literally them you can't change my mind:

anyway, let's just say silvia'll run into a certain masked vigilante in the next chapter... 👀 i love u guys for reading, i hope you're enjoying the fic so far!! <3

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