Chapter Text
Elektra was drowning in light.
She didn’t know how long she’d been without consciousness. But this time, when she came back to herself, there was no stone chamber, no strange woman, no gaping hole where her past had been.
She remembered everything.
Everything.
She was still alive. And if she was still alive—
Matthew.
She tried to raise her head but she could hardly move. Her eyes darted around wildly but all she saw was water and garbage and sky. He was gone.
She’d finally done it. She’d finally snuffed out his light.
The Black Sky had swallowed the sun, and the light all around her was a poor substitute for his warmth.
She shivered.
She ached.
She—
She woke again at night.
She still didn’t know where she was or how she’d gotten there, but she knew who she was.
Elektra. That’s your name — Elektra. What have they done to you?
His voice echoing in her ears, she looked frantically again for Matthew. She could sit up now, with effort. She was wet and cold and she hurt, god how she hurt, the pain more dazzling than the city in the distance.
She needed to look for him.
She dragged herself to her feet, ignoring the thousand needle stabs of pain with every movement.
It took her hours to get there, to pull herself up from the riverbank, from the trash and the muck, and limp along the streets. Even weak and aching, it was not hard for her to stay hidden, to avoid notice. She was the darkness, and the darkness was her.
Somehow, she made it up to the roof of his building. Somehow she made it inside, silent without trying to be silent.
Though she made no noise herself, what she heard was unmistakable. Misery. Weeping.
She wanted to be relieved, she wanted to snatch just one second of peace, but she knew immediately that it wasn’t him. It was mourning for him.
For a moment, she thought she would collapse in a heap. But she kept standing. She was always left standing. She’d failed at death twice. She’d never be knocked down. She would go on, forever and ever, until even her tears rusted on her face.
She was the Black Sky.
She should leave. She should disappear back into the night. What could she bring to anyone but more grief?
But the pain was too strong now. She had used every last ounce of her strength only to find there was nothing at the end of the journey. She couldn’t take another step.
But her feet moved anyway, soundlessly, through the eerie yellow light of the billboard outside to his bedroom.
She almost smiled at the way the scene played out in reverse — this time, the startled blonde in the bed and Elektra in the doorway.
But no Stick. And no Matthew. Because, of course, she had destroyed her entire family. The hint of smile faded away.
The blonde jumped to her feet, letting out a gasping cry, a crumpled tissue in her hand.
“Who—?” But then Elektra watched as hope as bright as the sun spread over her face.
Karen. The name came to her then. The blonde was Karen.
“Matt?” she called loudly and she began to move toward Elektra, toward the living room.
“He’s not here,” Elektra said, in a voice that sounded as dead as she was supposed to be.
Karen’s face changed swiftly — hope crumbling into agony, agony growing into suspicion. “Why are you here?” she asked, in a tone that seemed to Elektra more curious than afraid. “What did you do to him?”
Elektra choked back a laugh, her vision blurring with hot tears.
“I killed him,” she said.
And then she sobbed.
And then, finally, she fell.
It should have been so easy to pretend.
She had fallen asleep on Matthew’s bed that day, the day she’d started to see the first pinpricks of light poking through the dark blank that was her past.
Waking up here now, she should be able to pretend she’d never left this bed, never left this room. That it was all just a nightmare, and now that her memories were really, truly back, she could find him, she could save him. From the Hand. From her. From the Black Sky.
He didn’t have to die.
She was so good at pretend. She’d played it her whole life.
Why couldn’t she pretend now?
The blonde—Karen—had something. Water. Her throat ached for it. How long had it been since she’d tasted clean water?
“I don’t know what to do,” Karen was saying. Elektra had to focus hard to stop the words from swimming, to piece them together in her mind.
“Do I call the police in Harlem and tell them that you’re here? Call the goddamn switchboard at Rand Enterprises?...You probably need a hospital, but I tried to check your pulse and you don’t—I don’t think you have...Oh, god, this is so fucked up.”
Elektra reached weakly for the water, which Karen seemed to have forgotten about. Karen bit her lip and handed it to her.
“Thank you,” Elektra whispered after taking a sip.
“Did you really kill him?” Karen murmured back brokenly, her face saying clearly that she needed answers more than anything else.
“I wouldn’t leave, and he wouldn’t leave me. He...he was holding onto me when...”
Karen’s eyes squeezed shut and she swallowed hard before opening them again. “Why—why wouldn’t you leave?”
“I’m the Black Sky.”
“What does that mean?”
But Elektra had no answer for that. Not one that could be put into words.
The blonde didn’t call the police. Or Danny Rand. Or the hospital.
She made soup.
She brought a bowl to Elektra when she floated to the surface again, in the glow of the lamplight. It was awkward, sitting up to eat. The pain roared.
“I—I’m Karen,” the blonde said, almost apologetically.
“I know,” Elektra said. She sipped the tiniest bit of broth.
“I think...I should probably check you for injuries.”
Elektra shook her head. “I’m healing. I’m...different now.”
Karen looked at her for a long moment.
“I know I should tell someone about you. But...I don’t think the normal rules apply here. And...you’re obviously...important to—to Matt.”
“No,” Elektra countered, a sudden memory bringing a little smirk to her lips. “That’s you.”
Karen looked at her, bewildered. Elektra couldn’t help but stare at her face, at the naked emotion in her eyes.
“That’s what he said about you,” Elektra clarified, breaking away from Karen's gaze. “‘She is important to me.’ I’ll admit I was rather jealous at the time.”
Her voice came out smoothly, archly, and she sounded so much like herself, her old self, her Elektra self that she was almost afraid. She had been made into a weapon, her very personhood had been stolen from her, and now it was just back?
Karen’s features were full of confusion as well. Her eyes were far away, her head moving back and forth, as if she was rejecting everything around her.
“If you made it out, maybe...”
Elektra closed her eyes, took a deep breath that lit up her ribs with pain. “As I said, I’m different now. I’m not sure what it would take for me...to die.” She sighed, her eyes now trained on her lap. “Matthew, for all his belief otherwise, was only human.”
The door was closing behind Karen before Elektra was able to look back up.
“Did you find him?” Elektra asked when Karen returned the next afternoon. She hid the hope that sparked in her chest behind a cool mask, made her voice almost mocking.
“I checked hospitals. Made some calls. Nothing yet,” Karen said, a sharp, defensive edge to her words. “They’re still digging.”
Elektra had managed to shower off the blood from her skin, to comb the mud from her long hair and to braid it. She’d pulled on some of Matthew’s things, a shirt and drawstring pants that were much too big and far too painful to be wearing. But she had nothing else, and she deserved the shame that burned in her. She had stolen his life and she had the nerve to—
Karen was watching her closely, a funny look on her face. “I can...get you some clothes.”
Elektra just shrugged uncomfortably. She knew why Karen was helping her. Her lofty sentiment about what Matthew would want was just that — sentiment. She might even believe it, but what was really driving her was her need to know. And Karen didn't understand that the ways she thought she was helping were no use to Elektra. The police, the Iron Fist, these were mere nuisances to the Black Sky.
But the soup. The water. The steely determination to find him, even if it made no rational sense—
Those things meant something.
“You have questions,” Elektra said quietly.
“Yes,” Karen said, surprised. Perhaps she had prepared for a lengthy buildup.
“I doubt the answers that I have will satisfy you.”
“I think I want to hear them anyway.” Karen looked around the room nervously, then pulled over the chair in the corner to sit near the bed. Elektra half-expected her to pull out a notebook or a tape recorder.
“Foggy said...you knew Matt from college?” Karen began tentatively.
“Franklin? Does he know I’m…?”
“No,” Karen said, running her hand through her hair. “I haven’t told anyone. Yet.”
Elektra let the pause spool out. “Yes,” she said finally. “Matthew was in college when we...fell in love. It ended badly.”
“That day...you were here.” Karen didn’t have to explain what she meant.
“We’d been fighting the Hand. I was injured. I almost died.” Elektra pressed her lips together. “I did die, later.” Karen breathed in like she was going to interrupt, but Elektra ignored her — she couldn’t stop now that she’d started. “It was the only good thing I’ve ever done. The Hand took it from me. They took everything. And now he’s gone.”
Whatever Karen had been about to say, she clearly forgot it at Elektra’s final words. “I don’t believe he’s dead,” Karen said, her voice calm but her eyes snapping with blue fire.
Elektra’s spine thrilled with the energy of it, but she kept her face impassive. “Wanting something doesn’t make it true.”
“Of course not. But you do have to have evidence — a body, a witness, something. You don't know for sure he's gone, or you wouldn't have dragged yourself here half-dead to look for him.”
“No. I killed him.”
“You don’t know that.”
Elektra laughed without humor. “What do you know of death? I've made it with my hands since I was a child.”
And Karen’s head ducked down for a second, but then she met Elektra’s gaze levelly. The sun had shifted since she’d arrived and now it was catching on the strands of her hair, turning them a glowing gold.
“I know enough,” she said darkly.
Elektra’s body was knitting itself back together. She could feel it. It was unsettling, but useful. She felt stronger with every passing hour. Within a day or two, she no longer craved long stretches of sleep. The pain receded and was replaced by restlessness.
She knew she should leave. She should go away and never desecrate his home with her presence again. But something pinned her in place. Maybe she was still holding on to hope that Matthew was alive. Or maybe it was—
The next time that Karen turned up, though, Elektra concealed herself near the roof access. Perhaps she was testing out the idea of disappearing. Or maybe she was just a coward.
Karen put down the bag she was carrying — probably the clothes she’d promised — and walked around the rooms. “Elektra?” she called and a knot tied itself in Elektra’s stomach. She’d never heard Karen use her name before.
Finally, Karen stopped beside the couch, still looking around. “I’ve decided...I’m going to keep paying the rent,” she announced to the room. “You...you can stay here, if you need to. I’ll be coming by...for the mail.”
There was something about the line of Karen’s spine that made Elektra’s own flare with pain. How much weight was she carrying on her shoulders? Hope only made things worse, made the grief shift and bunch and tilt unexpectedly.
Elektra didn’t want to cling to hope — she wanted to shoulder her heavy, steady load and move ahead. She wanted action.
As soon as Karen was gone, Elektra raided the bag for clothes that actually fit. And as soon as she was dressed, she left the apartment.
This time, she didn’t break the glass. She was the Black Sky — breaking and entering was beneath her. She invaded.
The boxing gym looked exactly the same. The lockers, the bags, the photos on the walls. The ring.
She wasn’t prepared for the way the memories slammed into her, like something physical. Like they were angry with her for forgetting them — they were stolen, they were taken from me, I didn’t forget — and so they were forcing her to relive them in vivid detail.
It was so much. Too much. To remember his hands and his lips and the way that he loved her. He’d loved her. And she’d loved him. She’d never loved anyone, never wanted to love anyone, but she loved him.
And she wanted to cry about it. To cry for all she was and all she never got to be, but her eyes were dry. She wondered for a fleeting second if Karen would cry, if she knew. If she knew how much life had been in Elektra once, before her heart stopped beating. If she knew the little girl Elektra had been, before she became the boogeyman from Stick’s war stories.
But Elektra pushed the thought from her head. No one had ever pitied her, the spoiled rich girl, the remorseless killer. Even Matthew. He'd prayed for her instead, for her everlasting soul. And what a joke that had turned out to be. She’d died, and she remembered neither harps nor brimstone. Only nothingness. And she’d sent him there. Alone.
She turned to the nearest bag and slammed her fist into it, hearing the satisfying thwunk. Yes, this would do. This was better than tears and shame. She could hurt. She could make other people hurt.
She cleared her mind, and she trained her body.
For the next several days, that was all Elektra did. She trained, and she slept in Matthew’s bed, hugging his pillow tight to her chest, and she trained more.
She hid herself away when Karen visited the apartment — Karen never saw her. But Elektra saw Karen.
Usually Karen came in the daylight, in the afternoon, but once she was still in Matthew’s kitchen after sunset, throwing out the food beginning to rot in the refrigerator. When she left, walking alone through the darkness, Elektra found herself heeding the impulse to follow, keeping a watchful eye until Karen made it safely through her own apartment door. Elektra told herself it was just an exercise, part of her training — nothing more.
Karen’s phone rang frequently on her visits — sometimes she’d sit down to do an interview right at Matthew’s table. Elektra had quickly gathered that she was a journalist of some sort. Almost every call related to the collapse in some way — the cleanup efforts, the effects on the neighborhood, and Elektra tuned them out, unable to bear it. But her ears perked up when she heard Karen exchanging heated words with someone, and she focused intently until she heard Karen say “Foggy” with tears in her voice.
Matthew still hadn’t turned up. Elektra knew he wouldn’t. She wondered how long it would take for Karen to come to the same conclusion.
She wondered how much it would break her unbeating heart when Karen finally did.
And then, Elektra ended up at Karen’s window. Because there was no one else—she had no one—and she needed—she had to—
It was late, it was dark inside, and she shouldn’t be there, she knew it was wrong to be there, but she rapped with her knuckles on the glass anyway. Her hand was trembling.
“Elektra?” Karen said when she opened the window, her face full of shock. She moved backward so Elektra could cross the sill.
Once she was inside, Elektra pulled the scarf she was wearing off her face and down to her neck. She tried desperately to catch her breath. She couldn’t seem to catch her breath.
“There was...a boy,” she managed eventually. “He didn’t—he didn’t see them.”
“Is he OK?” Karen asked, confused.
“Yes—yes—I helped him. I stopped them.”
“Someone was...hurting him?”
“He said thank you to me. He said thank you, over and over.” She could still hear his voice in her head, could still see his shock of brown hair and his pleading eyes.
“Who was hurting him?”
“A man—men.”
“Are they...dead?”
“No.” Elektra almost laughed, even as panic fluttered in her chest. “I couldn’t even kill them. He wouldn’t want me to.”
“I can call—” Karen was already pulling a disposable phone from a drawer. “Where are they?”
“Ninth and Forty-Second?” Elektra tried to picture it in her mind. “No. Forty-First.”
Karen was dialing. She spoke in a hushed tone that Elektra couldn’t tease apart into words.
“You’re bleeding,” Karen said when she hung up.
“It’s nothing,” Elektra said automatically. She hadn’t even noticed.
“Come on,” Karen said. She led Elektra to her kitchen table, then left the room and returned with a first aid kit. She put it on the tabletop, then went to a cupboard and pulled out a bottle of whiskey. She poured out a shot and set it in front of Elektra before bandaging the cut on her arm. Elektra had to fight the entire time not to pull away. Not to run. She was still shaking. She left the shot untouched on the table.
“I’m the Black Sky.” She didn’t realize she was repeating it out loud until Karen interrupted.
“Not tonight you’re not,” Karen said forcefully. “You're the white knight.” Karen smiled — a fierce, wild smile that set Elektra’s skin buzzing, that burned away the numbness and yanked her out of her stupor. Elektra finally caught her breath.
“What does that make you?” she asked. She thought of her climb up to Karen’s window. “The princess in the tower?”
“Sorry,” Karen said with a little laugh, “but I think you’re more qualified than I am to be the princess, too.”
Elektra licked her lips. “So who are you, then?”
“A friend?”
Their eyes met and held.