Things get worse before they get better.

And by worse, Michaela means she's hit rock bottom at least three times in the span of thirty minutes and she lost track of Matt ten minutes ago and Peter is working on getting Mordo back in the game through various DnD-inspired means—

Suffice it to say, she's having a rough go of it.

Another shockwave catches Michaela off guard and she hits the ground at an awkward angle, her shoulder twisting sharply at the joint and sending jolts of agony all down her arm. The impact drives the air out of her chest, her next inhale choked and bitten-off. The ringing in her ears drowns out the rest of the world and for a moment, Michaela lays there, blinking through cracked lenses and watching the smoke rise around her. Copper pools on her tongue and she swallows, knowing that turning her head is only going to rile up the nausea churning in her gut. Fuck, she hurts. Everywhere. From the grit stinging her palms and the insides of her wrists to the throbbing of her head and the blooming ache of bruises on every not-too-bloody patch of skin she has left.

Fuck. Just—fuck everything.

A shout, garbled and distorted from all the many bells she'd had rung recently, has her scrambling to move, to turn over, get her feet under her. She doesn't recognize the voice – she barely recognizes the sound of her own fucking thoughts – but it pricks at her instincts just enough to provoke a response. She gets onto her knees, ignoring the bright flair of pain from her hands scraping over the ruined asphalt, then staggers upright, and suddenly there's an arm around her and she's getting turned, someone's talking—

The goggle's are busted anyway, she thinks as she shoves them up and then off completely. Black-tinted plastic shakes free and probably lodges itself in her hair, another thing she'll have to look for if she gets a chance to hose down in the shower. But in the moment it's worth it, considering she's finally able to make out exactly who's staring at her with abject concern and an inappropriately handsome face.

"C'mon, Sparky, you gotta talk to me," Luke Cage says, and, shit, she's only just tuning in but he's been talking at her for a while now, yeah? She guesses as much based on his word choice as well as the subtle shake he gives her. She blinks again. Luke cocks his head, darting a glance over his shoulder then zeroing back in on her. "I'm not playing punching bag for Daredevil, so you gotta work with me here."

Her tongue feels thick and fucking useless in her mouth, but Michaela gets ahold of herself long enough to say, "Dare-Daredevil's more likely to, to get into the spinny kick bullshit when he's mad."

Luke's mouth curves into a slight smile that's more smirk-adjacent than it has any right to be in this scenario. "There she is. Snarky as the papers make you out to be, huh? Good to know they got something right. Now, how're you feeling? Saw you take a nasty hit to the head a while back."

A hit to the—Right. Right, right, that was the last time she got knocked off her feet. Lost her balance and careened straight into the side mirror of a miraculously undamaged car. That would explain the persistent headache and the nausea, actually, so it's good that Luke reminded her about it.

But, wait.

"You're here?" she blurts out, and she knows she's making the most incredulous face because not only does it pull at every cut she has but it gets Luke laughing.

"Yeah, we're here," he says. "Jess and I figured you guys could use the assist, since that guy multiplied or whatever."

Multiplied. Fuck, yeah, Cato did do that, didn't he? Michaela had an uncomfortably flashback to when she and Matt met Bailey, and that led to a guilt spiral of epic proportions, because Michaela can only hope that Bailey doesn't try and get in on this action; she should have texted them, laid the whole thing out and gotten Bailey to promise they wouldn't get involved. But alas, Michaela is forever an idiot and while Bailey had been on her mind earlier, she hadn't thought to check in with them, too worried they'd take it as an invitation to ascend to sidekick-dom without Michaela's actual say so.

But—fucking hell, that's not her main concern at the moment. Cato is. Cato and his weird clones, or whatever Mordo called them. Astral something or others, whatever that means. It's all just more magical bullshit in her eyes, and from what she's seen, they're just as dangerous as genuine clones; she's pretty sure it was an astral-clone that lassoed Spidey mid-jump and hurled him sixty feet down the street.

"You're... much appreciated," is what eventually tumbles out of Michaela's mouth once she's realized the silence – or near silence, what with all the battle sounds that are breaking through her chaotic ringing finally – has stretched on for a beat too long. "Where is—" She flaps a hand to convey where the fuck is everyone else and Luke seems to get the spirit of her gesture if not the literal translation.

"Jess is helping your boy take on one of the wizard clones, and the good guy wizard and Spider-Kid are tag-teaming another one."

That's two. Which leaves them with—Cato. Possibly, anyway; Michaela hasn't noticed any sort of distinguishing features that mark a clone as a clone, so it's a toss-up as to who they're fighting. Which is all kinds of uninspiring, but she's trying not to dwell on the plethora of bad shit she has going for her right now.

"Right," Michaela says, and it's breathless and high, the word scraping her throat raw. Breathing is agony and every slight movement is hell, but she has a job to do, and concussion or not she's not shying away from the responsibilities she's given herself. "Right, okay. So. You wanna partner up?"

"Thought you'd never ask, Sparky. And right on time, too."

Luke releases her, checks she's mostly steady on her own two feet, then turns to face the man of the hour, who's just dropped down from somewhere above them. Cato is, somewhat gratifyingly, battle-scarred. His hood's been torn from the neck of his cloak, revealing the scrapes and dribbling cuts across his forehead and cheeks. Mordo managed to rip a bracer off him during their last skirmish and the bared skin looks blistered and burnt from the blow. He's bleeding from somewhere on his torso, his tunic made almost black from the wound, and when the mystical golden circles appear around his forearms, they—flicker, a little.

They're all exhausted, she knows that. Drawn-out fights hit everyone, friend and foe alike. Here's hoping Cato's finally starting to flag just like the rest of them.

Luke gives her a pointed look and she nods, slipping out from behind him just as Cato whips his staff around, and the shockwave catches Luke square in the chest. He stumbles, though, just stumbles, the impact not doing much to even smack the smile from his face. Bulletproof, right. Useful ability – way better than what she's got in her arsenal.

But she's not thinking about that, because thinking at all is kind of counterproductive to her getting out of this alive.

Electricity surges through entire body as she charges in at an angle, pooling down her forearms and into her hands, and Michaela doesn't hesitate to bring her hands together, shooting a bolt straight at Cato. He moves to dodge, twirling his staff to dispel any stray sparks, but he isn't fast enough to avoid the fist Luke slams into his chest. Cato's magical bracelets go dark for a solid three seconds as he tries to recover, and Michaela's learned to take advantage of a weakness after all this time in the vigilante gig.

She hits him again, and again, and again. Short-range lightning bolts that don't hit all that hard but that she's able to fire in rapid succession. Cato deflects some with his shields and others with the staff, but with the sheer volume of them – coupled with Luke either throwing literal hands or chucking rubble at Cato with abandon – some find their mark.

It's not like she's coming out of this unscathed, though. Cato catches her with the tail end of his energy whip, and it snakes around her thigh and just below her knee, burning right through her gear, before she's able to zap it with enough power to break its grip.

There's a split-second of cognitive function happening that lets her acknowledge that that was way more difficult than the last time she fought Cato, and that—that's not good. Through the smoke and the grit, it's less noticeable but Michaela thinks Cato's maybe... glowing brighter? His tattoos stand out in sharp relief against his skin, white gold even with the hazy air between them where they'd been more of a burnished bronze before. Her mind flickers to cut scenes of anime and cartoons and video games, the villain charging up, amassing every last ounce of their power so they can unleash it all in a devastating final move.

And. Well. Michaela can't exactly let that happen.

She moves before the doubt can overwhelm her. One second she's watching Luke toss a jagged block of concrete at Cato and the next she's electrifying every inch of her body and tackling Cato right into the portal he's just conjured to presumably hurl the concrete harmlessly past him. Presumably, because clearly she's not gonna get to see exactly how he was going to use it, since she and Cato (distracted, probably, and not quick enough to shake her off) are through to the portal's other side and suddenly they're fucking falling, Jesus Christ, she's falling, the air's cutting at her skin and screaming in her ears and they're gonna hit the ground and she's finally gonna achieve her subconscious desire to become a fucking pancake on the streets of New York—

The ground rushes up to meet them much soon than Michaela was expecting.

Cato's body smacks into the street first and the recoil jostles her from where she'd been doing an impressive imitation of a koala, her arms and legs jerking free of their hold on him and sending her rolling, almost bouncing, a few feet away.

The smell of burnt hair is what she notices first, sharp and bitter in the back of her throat. Fuck, that's her, that's—that's the charred hair on her arms and the back of her neck, the loose strands from her braid that coiled up at her sweaty temples and cheeks. Some of it might even be from Cato where her sparking hands clutched tight around his bare upper arms. Fuck. The ringing is back and with a vengeance, and Michaela's entire body throbs with the rabbit-quick beat of her heart, the blood rushing through her veins. She doesn't, there's no time for this, she has to get up, to move, Cato is still—

Another shout, and it's clearer, and she knows that voice, she—

Michaela bites back a whimper when hands grab at her shoulders, rolling her onto her back. Gloved hands, the rough fabric like sandpaper on her abused skin. But she wants to smile because that's Matt, and he's looking down at her, half of his mask cracked but he's alive and he's here, and he's – talking. He's talking, his lips are moving and forming words of some kind. Fuck, okay, focus, Michaela, focus!

"Matty," she rasps, forcing her bloody lips into an approximation of a grin.

Matt's hands smooth gently over her arms, checking for breaks, and then he's cupping her cheeks with a barely-there touch, just enough pressure to know he's there. His mouth's a flat line but she knows him well enough to guess that he's shaking inside.

"Queens wasn't enough for you?" he asks, his voice level and controlled but with a fine tension snaking through it. Almost brittle, like he'd crack right down the middle if someone touched him. "You have to drop in on every borough now?"

"I'm... thorough," she says, or thinks she says. Words are getting lost in the staccato beat that's taken up residence in her head. But Matt sighs like he's heard her. And then his head tilts away from her, his shoulders tensing. "...Matt?" she tries. "I mean, shit, uh. Dare...devil?"

The tension doesn't dissipate. If anything, Matt coils tighter. His hands drop from her face and he half rises from his crouch, and Michaela's scared, okay, she'll admit, she'd like for someone to explain what the fuck is happening. She's gearing up to ask Matt what the fuck is happening when she hears someone – Jessica – calling out: "The fight isn't over, lovebirds! Move your asses!"

And then Matt's – gone.

Michaela blinks and he's thirty feet away, rolling to a reluctant stop, his hands scrabbling at the asphalt, and, fuck, oh, fuck – Michaela throws herself sideways, a weak cry ripped from her chest as she feels the stretch of wounds, just in time to avoid the whip that's smacked down into the street. She tries to get up but her arms give out before she's even raised up onto her knees, and fuck that's Peter yelling for her, and Matt in the distance. The whip cracks down again, inches from her face, and okay. She screams. Loudly. Her heart is pounding out of her chest and everything hurts and she can't move—

"You're lucky I don't hate you," Jessica says, suddenly there, breathless but breathing, and she just – scoops Michaela up like she weighs nothing, tucking her tight against her chest as she jumps back from the multi-colored blast of energy Cato throws at them. Michaela cries out again, can't help the shaky, broken noise that leaves her, but she holds on as tight as her protesting muscles will allow, an arm around Jessica's neck and a hand fisted in the tattered remains of her leather jacket.

"He's fucking relentless," Jessica hisses, and Michaela really can't agree more. She's got her face shoved into Jessica's shoulder but she can hear the tell-tale signs of Cato's pursuit: the crack of the whip, the boom of his staff and its shockwaves. "Hold on!" and Michaela barely has time to process why she'd need a reminder to hold on because that's about all she can do right now when Jessica jumps again – only she doesn't come back down right away, and the wind in her ears is just loud enough to be heard over her pounding blood and they're flying, fuck, just a little, and then they're touching down and Jessica skids across the ground and Michaela nearly goes flying out of her arms, startled into loosening her grip—

And then Matt's got her, his arms like a vice around her waist, crushing her to his chest. She doesn't even care that he's squishing bruised-maybe-broken ribs, that she doesn't have a single breath left in her body after all the screaming she managed on the way down. She clings as tightly as she can to Matt and he clings back, and that's. A lot. It's more than enough.

It's inappropriate, given the timing, but Michaela's willing to give herself a pass considering she's almost died – what, three times? Four? In less time than it takes to bake a fucking cake?

Yeah, they've earned a little bit of inappropriate intimacy.

"Matt," she says, and he's already shaking his head. The harsh edges of his mask dig into her shoulder, his nose pressed into her skin. "Matty. C'mon. You know we have to finish this. We gotta let go."

"I don't much like the consequences when we let go of each other," he says, the words warm and as soft as they are splintered, breathed across her shoulder.

He's breaking her fucking heart.

"Me either," she says, reaching for the only bit of skin she can find, her hand grazing his chin, his perpetual stubble prickling her fingertips. "But Jessica... is probably gonna kick both of our asses... you know? If we leave her to do this by herself..."

"You've really got no right being the voice of reason in this relationship, King."

"I will... gladly hand the honor right back to you... when this is over, Murdock."
That earns her a stilted laugh. Matt lets her go, lets her stand on her own, and she smiles at him. Well, she tries to smile; it's more akin to a pained grimace than anything else, and it's probably good that he can't see the expression in its entirety. Don't need him second-guessing himself right now, could lead to some nasty endings in their collective future.

As Michaela rights herself, wrapping an arm around her aching ribs and brushing the damp, downright disgusting hair from her eyes, she becomes aware of the others. It's not just Jessica waiting around for their tender moment to finish – Luke's with them, too, and Peter's crouched down beside them, a dazed-but-functional Mordo at his heels. Jessica flicks them a glance, frowning, but Luke is smiling when she meets his eyes, sympathetic. She can't tell much from Peter's mask but she knows he's just happy they've all made it to this point, and hell, she's right there with him. They've been through some serious shit in the last... fuck, forty-five minutes? Has it even been that long? She's going to be sporting half a fucking head gray hair after this, she fucking knows it.

And outside of their little circle stands Cato. As they watch, his two clones – astral projections, that's it! Fuck, right, okay, the astral projections seem like they're merging, phasing right back into Cato until he's the only one facing them. His staff is held tight in one hand, the other encircled by those golden rings Michaela's become so familiar with. But they're – less vibrant, maybe, or dimmer than they were before. Even from here Michaela can see the ragged rise and fall of Cato's chest, the ever-widening circle of blood on his side.

"He's grown weaker," Mordo says, "but his powers are still above what they should be. The energy he siphoned from those Inhumans had much greater potential than even he realized, I think."

"So, you're saying we're fucked," Jessica summarizes, sounds remarkably unconcerned about their supposed impending doom. The white-knuckled grip she has on her upper arms says it's mostly just a front, though, and Michaela sure as hell isn't going to be the one to call her out on it.

"Perhaps," Mordo replies, then adds, with a hint of a smirk, "perhaps not."

"I swear to god, if you don't give us a straight answer, I'm going to put a fist through your chest, Dumbledore."

"Jess," Luke chides, but at the scathing look Jessica sends him, he shrugs and lets it go.

"I know of a way to combat Cato's unholy power," Mordo says, "but I need—" He breaks off abruptly, cursing up a storm as all of them scramble to dodge the massive burst of energy Cato launches at them.

Matt grabs Michaela and hauls her with him to safety, ducking behind an overturned car that likely isn't going to do shit for them as a barrier. But Michaela's alright with lying to herself at times like this, and she decides it'll work just fine for a minute or two so they can catch their breaths. Evidently, Mordo's had the same idea, because it's about two seconds later that he joins them, and Michaela would be irked, really, but they're all fighting for their lives and she's not going to begrudge the guy a safe space even if he is cutting into her time with Matt.

...she should seriously rethink her priorities the next time she gets a chance, Christ.

"You said you had a way out of this," Matt says, turning to face Mordo.

The man nods, his eyes on a point in the distance. Michaela follows his gaze, curious as to what the fuck could be distracting him, and – that's not her eyes playing tricks on her, right? That's. A crack in the sky. She blinks, shakes her head, but what she's seeing doesn't change. In the air between two buildings, there's a jagged line, and it's glowing with the same golden light as Cato's tattoos.

Huh.

"I alone am not strong enough to defeat Cato," Mordo says, and okay, Michaela has to bite back an ungodly snort at that, because Jesus fucking Christ, this isn't news to anyone. But she does stifle it (mostly) and she gets only the barest of judgey looks from Mordo before he goes on. Score. "But I know someone who is. I can get her and bring her here now that Cato's control over this dimensional travel shielding has begun to deteriorate."

"I sense a but coming."

"But," Mordo says, sighing, "to do so would mean leaving the rest of you the fend for yourselves. I realize I have no done much to win your trust, especially not in this fight, but you must trust me when I say that Cato will make use of my absence, no matter how short. He will come at you and he will not hold back."

Michaela doesn't know what to say to that. Has Cato been holding back? Is that what's she supposed to take from this? Because if that's him holding back... fuck. Fuck. Beside her, Matt is just as silent, mulling over what they've been told.

"How long do you need?" Matt finally asks.

"Less than a minute," Mordo says.

Michaela's shoulders drop of their own accord. "Oh, a minute? We can, uh. We can handle that. Probably."

Before Mordo can respond, Peter appears atop the car they're hiding behind, landing with enough force that his sneakers dent the side door. He's trailing webbing, the strings wrapped loosely around his arms and chest, and he's looking a little singed at the edges.

"Blackout! Daredevil, Dumbledore!" – Michaela quietly enjoys the pinched expression that gets from Mordo – "You've got incoming!"

"Do what you have to do!" Matt orders, and then he's up and parkouring his way over the car, baton at the ready.

Peter glances back at him, then down to Michaela. She blinks at him, to which he shrugs and extends a hand. She takes it, lets him haul her to her feet, and when she looks back Mordo is already stepping through his own portal, though she watches it sputter and waver, looking as though it won't hold – but it does and he makes it through, at least as far as she can tell.

"Dumbledore's not sticking around? That's unfair!"

"He's coming back." Michaela pauses, wincing as she probes at a bruise on the underside of her jaw. "Fucking fuck that hurts. Shit, I mean – I'm pretty sure he's coming back. I'll haunt his wizard ass if he doesn't, and I will be the least friendly fucking ghost he's ever met. I will go full Paranormal Activity and his life will be actual hell."

"You'd have to die to haunt him, Michaela. You're not going to die. You're not, okay?"

Michaela can't help but smile a little, despite how it pains her to do so. "Right, right, I know. Neither are you, kid. Now c'mon, Dumbledore said he needed a minute. Let's give it to him."

She fully intends to do that. Really, she does. She's all raring to go, catching her second wind or whatever.

Except. Well. Michaela doesn't get more than two steps away from the car before the world drops out from under her.

The scream gets torn from her mouth and silenced before she even hits the ground. Disoriented, she fights to roll over, to figure out what just fucking happened (except she knows what it was, she's been tossed out those portals often enough that she's memorized the feel of it). She gasps as something – a foot, a slab of concrete, fuck it hurts – slams into her chest, knocking her onto her back, and then there's a weight pinning her down, settled on her knees, and Cato's beaming a bloody smile down at her.

"Finally," he breathes as he presses both glowing hands to her shoulders, and they burn burn burn, white hot and searing into her skin, and she can't fucking breathe, can't make a sound, "I've put this triumph off for long enough, haven't I, Blackout? My collection has grown exponentially since we last met, but it is far from complete. You have always been my masterpiece, Blackout – the powers awakened in you surpassed all expectations. You are raw energy and when I drain that power from you, I will be unstoppable."

"Michaela!"

"Blackout!"

There's a surge of – something, something golden and fanged, and it prickles over her skin, hooking deep into bones, and there's – she hears more voices, cries of pain, the thud of bodies on the street, but everything feels distant, removed, everything except the claws inside of her chest that tear and shred and pierce at something so deeply imbedded in her that she thinks it's her heart. She's gasping but it's soundless, the air long gone from her lungs, and she's bleeding, she must be, bleeding out, and there's a hole in her chest and Cato's cold empty eyes above her and his white-crescent smile stained a sickly red. She tries to fight it, tries to buck up, to shock his hands off her body, but nothing – nothing comes. No sparks, no lightning. The constant buzzing that's been in the back of her head since she discovered her powers has dulled to nothing. Silence and emptiness and blood.

But then:

"You have broken so many of our laws, Cato."

The weight vanishes from her in an instant. Oxygen takes a little longer to get with the picture but then she's sucking in sharp inhales and choking on them, she can feel every inch of her body again and she curls in on herself, clawing at her throat and her chest, and there's no hole, there's no gaping wound. Michaela breathes and breathes and she's crying, fuck she's crying, the tears hot and too much on her cheeks, too much sensation after the looming nothingness, but she's fucking ecstatic to be feeling it, because it means she's alive.

It takes a while before Michaela feels in control of herself enough to drag herself upright into a sitting position, but she manages it, and when she glances up, still with a hand pressed to her chest because she can't quite make her brain believe that there isn't a fatal wound in her sternum, there's. Uh. There's a woman standing in front of her. Tall and slim, decked out in a long, bright yellow robe that's actually hurting Michaela's eyes a little, her hood drawn back. And she's – bald. And also beautiful, which is a fucking stupid detail to take in at a time like this but Michaela's all but proven her dumbass status today, so it's fitting, honestly. She lifts a hand and Michaela follows the movement, her eyes widening at the sight of Cato writhing in the air before the woman, seemingly trapped there by pulsating coils of magic not that different from the whip he's been toting all throughout this encounter.

"You have harmed those who should have been under your protection," the woman is saying when Michaela tunes in, her voice strong and unyielding, but softer than Michaela might have expected if she had any room in her fucked-up head for expectations. "You have abused the magic we taught you to harness. You have stolen from us and stolen lives from others. You listened to the greed in your heart and turned away our teachings. And for that, you will pay."

Michaela watches, awe-struck and nauseated, as the woman slowly closes her outstretched hand, as the bindings around Cato mirror the movement, tightening more and more as seconds pass. Cato stares at the woman, unblinking, brown eyes shot through with red and gold, and he's saying something, or trying to, but the words are lost in the strangled sounds he's making. She just clenches her fist tighter, until Cato's head drops, his body going slack but held in place by the bindings.

The woman sighs and lowers her hand, and Cato's body lowers with it, dropping lightly onto the ground. Motionless. Michaela can't take her eyes off it – because he's dead. This man, this delusion, godforsaken asshole wizard who has been terrorizing her and the city she promised to protect for a fucking year, who has bested her and her friends at every turn, who killed countless Inhumans for his own gain and laughed about it – he's dead. Just like that. He's lying on the ground, lifeless, not even twitching. Dead.

Michaela – she starts laughing. It's ugly, her laughter, harsh and loud, broken up by hiccupping gasps that punch up from her chest and press into every bruise on the way. She's crying she's laughing so hard, or – or she's just crying, she can't tell anymore. Both, it's probably both. She presses her knuckles into her eyes, blinded by the red tint of skin against her eyes, and she's laughing and crying, and she's breaking apart but who the fuck cares about all that? Cato is dead. Dead! Some magical woman appeared out of nowhere and squeezed the life out of his demented body! And Michaela couldn't be fucking happier about it!
How fucked up is that?

"Child."

Michaela's hands drop from her eyes slowly, falling limply into her lap. The woman's kneeling in front of her, solemn and still, her eyes searching Michaela's for – something. She doesn't seem to find it, because she reaches out and lays a hand on Michaela's, and it's only then that she realizes how hard she's trembling, her body wracked by it. Tears are still sliding down her cheeks and she can't get them to stop, she's not even sure she wants them to.

"Child," the woman says again, "you have suffered so much by Cato's hand, and for that I could not be sorrier. I should have taken care of this myself, but I had not realized the extent to which Cato had perverted his magic. I thought Mordo would be a match for him and that this would be resolved long before Cato took so many innocent lives." She squeezes Michaela's hand. "But you may rest now. Cato has been dealt with and what he took from you has been returned."

Michaela's hand fists in her sweatshirt, breath hitching. Fuck, that's right, he almost – he almost killed her, almost stole her, her powers. Blackout would've died right alongside Michaela and she's not special, okay? She knows she's not, especially not compared to the other heroes in New York. Blackout isn't irreplaceable. But she's done some good, hasn't she? She's achieved something from all of this. Saved some lives, helped a few old women clear out their apartments. She's made people's lives a little better. To think that that might've been snuffed out... it's.

Fuck. Just... fuck.

"Christ," Michaela breathes, her heart slamming against her rib cage, "Jesus Christ, thank you. You – I would've died if you hadn't—"

"As I said," the woman gently interrupts, "I should have seen to this sooner. I don't deserve your thanks. I'm just grateful that I was able to make it here in time to end this before more blood was spilled."

"Ancient One." Mordo nearly scares the piss out of Michaela as he approaches them, appearing suddenly in her periphery on silent feet. "Shall I return Cato's body to the Sanctum?"

"Yes, Mordo, I believe you should." The woman – the Ancient One? Good lord, Michaela really thought Mordo had been fucking with her before when he mentioned her – squeezes her hand again before rising. She casts a faint glance at Cato, then looks back at Michaela. "Your friends are waiting, child. Go with them. As for the damage done here..." Her eyes pass over the wreckage of the area, narrowing. "We may not be able to set everything to rights, but we'll do all we can. I'm sure the Avengers can handle the rest."

Michaela nods stiffly, knowing it's better that she doesn't try to talk. God knows what kind of fucking gibberish would spill out without her consent. The Ancient One offers a slight smile.

"I truly am sorry for what you've gone through. Rest assured, I will be looking more closely into all those who practice our teachings so something like this doesn't happen again."

Michaela just nods again. Right, sure. Magic lady will curtail her wily students. Sounds like a plan that Michaela can get behind. She'd say as much, really, but. Gibberish. And she'd like to not look like a complete fool in font of this incredibly powerful and rightfully scary woman who took down Cato like he was a misbehaving toddler.

If, you know, people disciplined toddlers by squeezing them to death. Which, okay, that's probably happened, and fucking fuck, this is not the path Michaela's thoughts should be heading down, not after everything else that happened today.

She's half paying attention to the Ancient One and Mordo as they talk amongst themselves, Mordo readying Cato's lifeless fucking corpse for transport, half cataloging all the new and exciting aches she's sporting. She'll be laid up in bed for weeks after this, she can feel it, which means she'll probably be failing several classes and losing her job. All things considered, it's better than outright dying, although Michaela on her darker days would probably argue that point. Not that Matt would let her dwell on it—

Matt.

Michaela whips around so fast she sees stars, and everything tightens to an unbearable degree, and everything that doesn't tighten pulls sharply, and she's gasping again but she ignores it, pushes past it, because she can see the others not too far away, slowly picking themselves up from wherever Cato tossed them before. She wobbles to her feet, holding herself because otherwise she really is going to just fly apart, piece by piece, and she glances back at the wizards but they're not paying her any attention. The Ancient One is creating a portal and Mordo looks about ready to step through it and never set foot in Hell's Kitchen ever again, and you know what? Michaela's fucking glad of it herself. The less magical bullshit around here the better.

Peter's the first one to reach her, stopping himself from inadvertently tackling her by shooting out a web behind himself and letting it drag him to a skidding stop. She grins at him, relief cresting in her chest as he beams back, his mask hanging from his free hand. He's bruised and battered, undoubtedly a little more scarred than he was at the start of the day. But it's over and he's alright. He'll be alright. Michaela shakes her head and reaches for him, wrapping him up in a hug that he returns enthusiastically, but still mindful of his disproportionate strength.

"Good job, kid," she says, and he laughs, and it's a little wet but no one gives a shit, least of all her.

"We make a good team," he says, drawing back enough to look at her. "All of us, together. We're like, totally badass."

Michaela snorts, patting Peter's head absently. "Yeah, kid, we're badass. Go tell Jessica you wanna make this a full-time partnership, see where that gets you."
Peter's disgruntled face just sets her off again, which is unfortunate, because she hadn't noticed before laughing makes everything worse. Peter freaks out at seeing her in visible pain, his hands hovering over her, unsure where it's safe to touch, and she doesn't have the energy to soothe his nerves, so they're just playing into an anxious feedback loop until the others reach them. Luke claps Peter on the shoulder and moves him back while Matt steps into his vacated space, pulling Michaela closer, leaning down so their foreheads press together.

Michaela laughs a little to herself, because Matt hasn't taken his mask off and it's kind of uncomfortable but she's not going to be the one to pull back.

"You gotta stop scaring me like that, King."

"You act like I do it on purpose. I'm not in this for the thrills, Murdock, god, what do you take me for? Some kind of a daredevil?"

Matt groans but he's smiling, bloody and in desperate need of a twenty-four hour nap, but smiling all the same. "How long have you been holding that one in?"

"Since like, that night you told me you were Matt Murdock, attorney at law?"

"That long, huh? I'm impressed at the willpower it took not to use it until now."

"Thank you. I'm proud of myself."

Matt's smile softens some at that. "You should be, Michaela."

She's probably flushing a little from the praise and for once she's not even bothered by it. Instead, she just tucks her hand into Matt's and swivels to face the rest of the vigilante buddies. She lets out a stilted breath, easing it around the breaks in her ribs. "I really can't thank you guys enough for coming out here with us. You didn't have to, and—"

"Sparky, shut up, will you? This guy wouldn't have stopped at Hell's Kitchen and you know it. Your boy said it when he pitched the whole team-up thing to me: We gotta cover what the big league heroes can't, and that means helping each other out when we can. Yeah? We agreed to that, we're gonna stand by it. And Jessica cares a lot more than she lets on," he adds, giving Jessica a charming smile that she skillfully ignores in favor of rolling her eyes at Matt and Michaela.

"Yeah, yeah, what he said," she sighs, huffing the tangled hair from her eyes. "I do work better alone, but that doesn't mean I won't turn up when you need me. Quid pro quo, right? You scratch my back, etcetera, etcetera."

"I'm just happy to be included," Peter says, sheepish and flushed and too fucking adorable for the hell they've all just gone through. Not that Michaela's complaining.

Matt slips an arm around her shoulders and she curls close to his side, mindful of their collective injuries. "We're gonna thank you all regardless. You went above and beyond today, and we're all a little worse for wear from it. So, thank you."

"Thank you," Michaela echoes, grinning. Her smile only widens when that metaphorical light bulb goes off. "Oh, hey, who's up for food? Because I'm fucking starving."

"As long as we go somewhere with half-decent booze."

"Harlem's got some great places, and it's, you know. Considerably less trashed."

"I just, uh." Peter snags his phone from his pocket and fumbles with it, glancing between Jessica and Luke before locking eyes with Michaela. "I gotta – call my. Um. My cat-sitter! Let her know I'll be home late!"

Michaela just tucks her face into Matt's neck and laughs.