Vigilantism has been on the rise in New York for a while now.

The media has a typical love-hate relationship with the small-time heroes, extolling them for their efforts to combat the ridiculous crime-rate in New York City one minute, condemning them for their flagrant dismissal of the law and reckless endangerment of civilians the next. Michaela's hardly surprised; they've been treating the Avengers the same way since the Battle of New York, and Tony Stark has been getting fan- and hate-mail in droves since he announced to the world he was Iron Man in 2008.

So, not surprised, but a little baffled by the semi-professional mood swings. People on the street are much more consistent, honestly, with most of them pretty damn happy to have Daredevil, Jessica Jones, and Luke Cage around, because they take care of the problems that don't make it onto the Avengers' radar. She distinctly remembers an article from months ago that detailed one mother's account of how Daredevil rescued her son from a kidnapping attempt while they were on their way home — she'd said, explicitly, that without him, she didn't think anyone, the police or the Avengers or some well-meaning attempt at a citizen's arrest, could have brought her son home.

Spider-Man is kind of tricky, though — Michaela's seen the videos of him, swinging between buildings and webbing up petty criminals, and that voice he uses is so obviously fake that she can't help but assume he's young and trying to hide it. Which is. Upsetting, to a degree. It's probably not great if Spider-Man is out there risking his life dangling from high-rises in Queens when he might not even have his driver's license.

Granted, Michaela doesn't have her driver's license, but, well, it's New York, alright, and at least she's old enough to get drunk off her ass on cheap convenience store alcohol if she feels like it.

(She's been feeling like it a lot, lately, but that's not the point)

But, she supposes, either way it's the guy's choice what he does with his... powers. He's got powers, right? What with the clinging to buildings and shootings sticky webs from his wrists... it could be technology, but she's never seen anything like it if that's the case. She'd taken a day trip to Queens to meet up with friends a few weeks ago and she'd seen first hand what those webs are like in real life, and, wow, they're pretty fucking strong. She hadn't been on the receiving end or anything, but she and her friends had sat and watched for an amusing twenty-some minutes while a would-be car thief attempted to extricate himself from the webbing sticking him to the car. The one he'd been trying to steal.

She has to give Spider-Man props, for whatever it's worth; the guy gets results.

Michaela is... not as impressive with her track record.

She's musing about just that, actually, as she sits cross-legged on her cramped balcony, chin cradled in her hands while she pouts down at the police-radio in front of her. She'd gotten it from her cousin, who isn't really her cousin, and who has definitely been arrested more than once. He didn't question why she wanted it, just traded it to her for thirty bucks and a promise that she won't rat him out for growing his own weed in the community garden.

It's been a solid two months since Michaela blacked out her apartment complex, and while life hasn't necessarily gotten any easier for her, she's having less and less panic attacks about the whole thing. That's a win in her book. Finals came and went, and she scraped by, netting a few Bs and a handful of Cs that said, more or less, that she at least wasn't wasting her time with college. It's not like she wants to work at Cody's for the rest of her life, though she's having her doubts about how good of a graphic designer she's going to be, practically speaking. Her professors think most of her designs are derivative, and they're constantly telling her she needs to draw more on her own inspiration, not on the media she's consuming on a daily basis.

Like it's that easy. Ugh. She went light on her course load this semester, at least, so she's only dealing with two classes for the next few months. Much less stressful that way. It'll take her a lot longer to get her degree at this rate, but hell, she waited until she was twenty-three to even apply for school, seems only right she's gonna be thirty by the time she finishes it.

In hindsight, that impulsive decision to try and become a famous singer at eighteen was not the right thing to do, and honestly she can't really blame her dad for basically disowning her. What a dumbass child she'd been. What a dumbass adult she still is. Sitting here in a faded, worn-out hoodie and clingy sweatpants, desperate for some kind of interesting chatter to come over the radio so she can prove (to herself, if no one else) that she's worth something.

And to alleviate some of the boredom that comes with less classes and no increase in shifts, but she's keeping that one close to the vest.

Still, she's not getting anything from the radio right now, so she switches it off and tucks it into the empty planter attached to the railing, layering it with a few seed packets so it's mostly hidden in the dark. She doubts anyone would steal anything from her balcony, of all things, but even if someone were so inclined, the radio isn't any great loss on her part. Her cousin probably has another one, and if he doesn't... patrolling the streets might actually help with the acute restlessness she's been feeling since she developed her powers, or whatever really happened.

Turns out, when you're actively coursing with electricity, you don't like lazing around all that much. Michaela has to burn off energy one way or another, and when it's not (carefully, lest she have a repeat of the laptop incident) charging her phone, it's running around Hell's Kitchen like the dumbass she's now fully committed to being. It's not as likely she's going to get murdered these days, though, so it's not as ridiculous as it could be. But it's by a slim margin, so she doesn't make a point of bragging about it.

Patrolling, though. She can work with that.

Micheala adjusts the hood of her sweatshirt, ensuring that she's getting maximum coverage of her face, then tugs up the scarf she's got tucked into the neckline, hoping it masks what the hoodie doesn't. She could get an actual mask, probably, but like hell is she going near anything like Captain America's — the man is gorgeous, no two ways about it, but that cowl is so damn ugly. And sort of impractical, if she's being honest. How effective can that actually be as a helmet when it doesn't look all that dense? Then again, he is a supersoldier, so maybe he doesn't really need it... but that just raises more questions than it answers, and it is really not what she should be thinking about currently.

Down on the streets, she takes a moment to breathe in the night air, quirking a smile at the minute, inconsequential sounds of life that drift around her. Cars whooshing past, the occasional splash of a puddle being disturbed; people, few though there are, chatting to one another, distant shouts from the local bars and clubs. No one looks twice at her despite how absolutely shady she looks, which is one of the reasons she's both grateful for and a little horrified of New Yorkers. These are the people who bounced back from an alien invasion like it was nothing; they're definitely not to be underestimated, but they also might not be the sanest people in the world. Michaela loves them, truly, loves being one of them.

It's probably why she took her sudden evolution of powers as well as she did.

Uh, for a given value of well, anyway.

She walks even though she's itching to pound down the streets at a full-out sprint, because while night-running isn't any more likely to earn her suspicious glances, it's not all that conducive to casing the streets in search of people who need help. Again, she doesn't have a great track record with this hero business, and she'd kind of like to prove the one reporter who straight-up called her a "knock-off Thor" wrong, so she needs to get some more exposure here.

How likely is Jessica Jones to kick my ass if I show up at her agency and ask for some advice? It's a non-zero chance, so Michaela should probably shelve that idea for now.

It's also probably just her luck that the first real chance she gets at protecting the peace, she gets upstaged by the Devil of Hell's Kitchen.

Michaela knows her neighborhood. It's not a place you move to to raise your gaggle of children, partly because the school system is in dire need of a drastic overhaul, partly because of all the fucking gangs. Gang violence has gotten slightly better recently, what with the uptick in vigilantism, but it's by no means been wiped out. Victims are still all over the news, bars get shot up on a semi-regular basis. Which means Michaela only flinches a little when the first shot rings out from across the street.

Her first instinct is to cower behind the parked car beside her and call for the police, but, when she started this whole hero gig, she promised herself she'd act as her complete opposite while she was "in hero mode." Because the last thing she needs right now is to have her name connected with the wannabe Thor throwing not-quite-lightning around Hell's Kitchen, and she figured, since the chances of running into someone she knows at least tangentially is pretty high, that acting as unlike herself as she possibly can would go a long way in making sure she doesn't get recognized. So that means she does the exact opposite of her instincts and steps boldly out into the street.

Plus the police have a horrible response time in this area and there are definitely non-powered civilians out here with her, so. She can do this. Probably.

Here's hoping?

It's about what she expected when she really gets a good look at what's going on. Five men, three of them in matching leather jackets (she hasn't heard of the Jackals, personally, but it sounds like a gang name so she's going with that unless proven otherwise), two in more nondescript clothing but similar color schemes. Four of them have guns out, one of which just recently fired into the pavement in front of the fifth's feet. Ah, shit, this is territorial, isn't it? God, Michaela doesn't understand gangs in the least, what's even the point?

Well. Not like she's trying to sympathize with them.

Michaela takes another step forward just as the arguing starts. She doesn't pay attention to the specifics, concentrates more on their movements, their positioning. She's got no training to speak of, but her instincts about people have served her well enough over the years; she can tell these men are dangerous, but that's mostly to each other — it remains to be seen whether or not this'll turn ugly, and Michaela hopes to avoid the violence altogether if she can help it.

"Boys, boys!" she calls out cheerily, and three heads snap around to stare at her, their eyes narrowed incredulously; the other two remain staring at each other, which is understandable given the still-smoking gun between them. She carefully removes her hands from her pockets, palms out, smiling behind her makeshift mask so her eyes undoubtedly crinkle at the corners. Not that they should be able to see her eyes, but it's all about selling the act, okay, it's necessary. "What's the problem here? Why can't we all play nice?"

"I'd get outta here if I were you," one of them, the tallest one, narrow shoulders and tattooed up to his fucking eyeballs, warns her, gesturing with his gun. Which. Not the safest thing he could be doing, since she's fairly certain the safety isn't on, but, well, she didn't really expect anything less. "This doesn't concern you."
"Oh, but that's where you're wrong, buddy. What happens in Hell's Kitchen very much concerns me, because I live here, and I'm not all that keen on seeing more blood on the streets. You know? It's a hygiene thing, really."

That gets two of them turning their guns on her. She swallows, quick and hard. That's not what she'd call progress but it's something, anyway.

She hasn't gone against anyone all that violent before. Helped an older man get his briefcase back from a mugger who was barely out of high school, fried the electronics in a car that was in the process of being stolen. Simple stuff. Guns haven't been involved up until now and she can't say she's all that thrilled about it. But she wraps that bravado around her like a shield, turns up the wattage of her invisible smile, and lets the lightning crackle between her spread fingers.

The guns waver for a second or two. More than one of them pales a little, their faces creased with uncertainty. She's not Thor, that much is obvious just based on her size and general femininity, but she's something, and that's enough to give them pause.

Then one of them scoffs and says, "Fuck, I've heard about 'er, she's nothing. Packs as much punch as a toaster oven. Just shoot her and get it over with."

Well, hell, that's unflattering. A toaster oven? Come on, she's gotta rank a little higher than that. A toaster oven. This dick definitely got that from the guy who called her a knock-off Thor. Fuck that guy, fuck him sideways. What's he done to help the city out—

The second shot whizzes just past her right shoulder and effectively cuts off her inner monologue.

Her brain takes half a second to reboot, but then she's dodging to the side as another shot rings out, her whole body alight with electricity even if it's keeping itself internal for the time being. She can feel it zipping around her muscles, making everything contract, tighten, but it's not hindering her, she realizes, it's letting her move just a smidge faster, makes her reflexes just a little more fine-tuned. It sure as hell saves her from getting gut-shot once one of the other assholes has turned his gun on her and she dives just in time to avoid the bullet, tucking into an instinctive roll and coming to her feet just behind the haphazard group.

They're not completely aligned in their interests — while they want to get rid out her, they're not letting the rival gang members out of their sights, so they're just distracted enough that she can make a grab for the closest man. And — okay, she hasn't really tested this out, and she doesn't want to kill anyone, Jesus, so she dials down the shock factor as much as she consciously can when she slaps a hand to the exposed skin of his bicep, which still elicits quite the scream as the jolt runs through him. The smell of burnt skin hits her hard and she feels bile in her throat but she pushes it down as the guy wrenches free of her, dropping to his ass on the street, his gun skittering a few feet away from both of them.

The other four are watching her when she thinks to look back up. Reevaluating the threat.

That's when all four remaining guns are pointed at her. Fuck.

But that's also when some red-suited figure launches themselves from a nearby fire escape and tackles one of the gang members to the ground, and before Michaela can react (re: let out an unholy shriek) they're on their feet again, whipping out a baton and cracking it against another man's knees, taking him down. The third and fourth barely have time to jerk their guns around before the baton's knocked them out of their hands and the new arrival has thrown themselves into some kind of ridiculous spin-kick combination and laid them out flat on their backs. All five of the gang members are groaning on the ground, some of them bleeding, all of them relieved of their weapons, and the red-suited figure is barely out of breath.

Michaela would be insulted if she weren't so damn stunned.

"Uh," she says with all the eloquence of the toaster oven she was accused of being. "Daredevil?"

Because this has to be him, right? The suit's a dead giveaway. Matte red and black in places, clearly made up of some kind of body armor, with the telltale horns on the mask that covers the upper half of his face. Horns, Christ, what was he thinking? Then again, it's not like she has a right to be criticizing the fashion choices of the man who more than likely just saved her life.

(She'll still think it, but she won't say it to him. That's fair.)

"That's what they call me," he says, in what is a very casual tone for a man who just beat the shit out of four armed men without breaking a sweat. He cocks his head, studying her, from the lingering electricity zipping around her trembling fingers to the (rather disappointing) mask. Or, she thinks that's what he's looking at; the eyes on his mask are opaque, she can't see through them and in the back of her mind she's gotta wonder how he sees, but, one-way eye holes aren't really that far-fetched compared to her, you know, emitting sparks from her body like a... fuck, a toaster oven that's been dropped in the tub.

She's going to die mad about that remark, she knows it. It's way more insulting than the Thor thing.

"Well," she says after a pause in which Daredevil kicks the guns further away from the whimpering men at his feet, "it's nice to, uh, meet you. Since we're sharing this part of New York, apparently. Vigilante buddies, and all that." Fuck her brain-to-mouth filter for never doing its goddamn job.

This is not the time to make bad impressions! She might need him to save her ass again! Michaela is so out of her depth with this hero shit, honestly, she does not need to ostracize the only other hero she has a decent chance of running into while she's out and about.

All is not lost, though, because he cracks a smile that isn't anywhere near as condescending as she might've assumed. "Right, vigilante buddies. Have you tried that one on Jessica Jones yet?"

Michaela flushes, because this basically proves that if she ever meets Jessica Jones she's going to get thrown through a window. "Haven't had the pleasure of meeting her," she says to cover the spike of embarrassment. She swears his smile widens a fraction, though, so clearly she's not doing too great at the whole conceal, don't feel thing most heroes have got going on, even with hiding her face as best she can. "You think she wouldn't go for it? I mean, you, me, Luke Cage and her — and Spidey, even if he is all the way in Queens... we should form a club, don't you think? Exchange numbers, do each other's hair, spill all the best places to stash bad guys until the police can get 'em."

"I haven't met her, either, honestly," he says, which is... surprising? She was kidding about the club thing, but shouldn't the small-fry heroes stick together? "But her reputation precedes her, and I'm not sure she'd go for the enthusiastic approach you've got going for you."

Michaela lets out a breath, almost a sigh, and shoves her hands back into her pockets. At this point, even with the sparking she can't quite control, her body's gotten used to the constant electrical stimulation, so she's not shocking herself anymore. It's a blessing and a curse, because now she can't always tell when she's about to electrocute the microwave until it's pretty much happened. She does not have the budget to be replacing all her household appliances on a weekly basis, and once again she finds herself envying Tony Stark and all his ridiculous, somewhat offensive wealth. At least he's channeling a lot of into the Avengers these days.

"Figures," she says with a self-deprecating grin that he can't see. "Guess you'll do for now, fellow vigilante buddy. Speaking of that, what am I supposed to do with these—"

She's not really aware of when he moves, because his reaction time is stupidly better than hers, but one moment they're happily chatting (on her part, anyway), shooting the superhero shit, the next he's grabbing her and spinning her to the side, at the same time kicking a foot into the gun that was about to fire at her back, sending it flying into the alleyway next to them. The shooter, the guy she'd thought she'd taken down herself, gets a second to blink at them, wide-eyed and red-faced with pain, and then Daredevil's knocked him unconscious. Just like that.

Michaela is going to have quite the breakdown when she gets home tonight, that's for sure.

"Thank... you?" she squeaks out, very conscious of the hands wrapped around her waist, of how close she is to his masked face, and of how unaffected he seems. Like this is routine, like he squares off against gun-toting baddies so often that it's become second nature to just roundhouse kick them into submission. So, so out of her depth here, she might as well be swimming in the goddamn Marianas Trench.

"Vigilante buddy tip?" he says, only releasing her after he's double-checked that the other gang members are out of commission. His mouth tilts into something of a teasing smirk. "If they've got guns, get them away from the guns, and don't turn your back on them unless you're sure they won't be causing any more trouble."

She nods briskly, bobbing her head not unlike one of those birds that dips its beak into water at regular intervals. She'll remember that.

"Don't worry about these guys tonight," he says, drawing her attention away from the man who nearly shot her and back to his face. "I'll take care of them. Go home."

She's grateful that he doesn't give her some line about rethinking her stance as a vigilante, because that would be kind of really hypocritical of him, and also wouldn't do a damn thing to change her mind; it'd only make her angry, truthfully, because it's not like she hasn't thought about this. About the risk she's taking by coming out here every night and actively looking for trouble like these guys. She could die, she gets it, she does, but. She has these powers. What else is she going to do with them, become a human phone charger and have people pay by the hour? It'd be a lucrative business, sure, especially at festivals and concerts and the like, but she wouldn't be doing anything real with her powers, would she? And that's a little more selfish than she's comfortable with.

"I'll, uh... I'll do that," she says, grating the words out past the lump in her throat. Go home, she can handle that, definitely. "Thank you, really, so much for... for everything tonight."

Another smile. "I'd say any time, but I don't think you want to end up in this situation too often." He pauses a moment, clearly mulling something over, then says, "You might want to work on long-distance fighting. That electricity of yours is great in close-quarters, but... Keeping your distance is smarter. Just another vigilante buddy tip for you."

She snorts a somewhat hysterical laugh and nods again. "I appreciate it, Mr. Karate Man. I'm sure you excel at keeping your distance yourself, huh?"

He just keeps smiling, and Michaela does not have the energy to deal with him anymore, so she takes a breath, nods to him, dutifully ignores the unconscious men around her, and heads for home.

The next morning there's an article that says Knock-Off Thor and Daredevil have teamed up to protect the streets of Hell's Kitchen, and Michaela fries the coffee maker for the third time that month.