Chapter 17: One of Marvel's Must-See Destinations — Hell's Kitchen
Under the street lamp.
Walrus swallowed the last of the donut, wiped his hand on his uniform in the approximate direction of a napkin, and lumbered after the direction Matthew had gone. His build was not conducive to discreet surveillance. In the geography of a wet city street, there was no cover large enough to meaningfully conceal the Michelin Man, and Walrus was operating at approximately that scale.
Matthew, meanwhile, was tracking System points trickling in from the current block and had not noticed he was being followed.
He worked through the last of the supplies. Umbrellas, cigarettes, the remaining bottle. When the box ran out of things people wanted, the remaining homeless cleared off with varying degrees of gratitude, the ones who left without it had chosen a different approach, which Matthew handled by briefly opening his coat to display the Glock on his belt. That resolved the disagreement efficiently.
He also had peanuts. The kind that made a person very, very sleepy shortly after eating them. He kept these available for specific situations.
With the box empty, Matthew began flattening the cardboard to give to someone as makeshift bedding. That was when he noticed a child.
She was standing a short distance away, watching him. Small frame, skin the dull yellow of someone who had not been eating enough for a long time. She was clearly malnourished.
"...You want this?" Matthew held up the flattened cardboard.
She opened her mouth, seemed to start a sentence, and stopped. A few seconds of silence.
"Sir," she finally said, carefully, "do you have any alcohol left?"
"Alcohol." Matthew looked at her properly. "You're a child. And if I had to rank things you need right now, alcohol is not at the top of the list. Bread, milk, or a hot burger and fried chicken, any of those would be my suggestion."
The girl visibly swallowed at "burger and fried chicken."
Then she shook her head. "Thank you, sir, I appreciate it. But if you have alcohol, I would really rather have that."
Matthew found this interesting. He crouched down to her level and gestured for her to come closer. She was hesitant about it, but she came.
"What's your name?"
"...Nikki."
"Okay, Nikki. Tell me why you actually want alcohol. Tell me the truth and I'll buy you a bottle." He took a few bills from his pocket and showed them to her.
The money caught her attention immediately. Then, clearly, she pushed the reaction down.
"It's not for drinking," she said honestly. "I need it to clean a wound."
"Clean a wound."
"Yes." She nodded, looking like she was holding something in. "Three months ago, my mom got caught in the crossfire during a gang fight. A stray bullet. We couldn't afford a doctor so she just — she's been managing. But a week ago she started running a fever. Old Carter on our block said if she doesn't see a doctor soon, she might..."
She didn't finish the sentence.
"So you came out in the rain to find alcohol for disinfection."
Nikki nodded. The tears and the rain had mixed on her face and run through the dirt there.
Matthew looked at her for a moment. Then he stood up.
"Show me where she is."
He started walking.
"I came out here tonight to benefit the people. Giving things to people who don't appreciate it is benefiting the people. Helping someone in an actual bad situation is also benefiting the people. Might as well make it count."
Nikki took a quick step after him. "But sir, you don't have to—"
"You don't think I can help?"
"No! That's not it!" She shook her head fast. "I know you can help. It's just — I live in Hell's Kitchen. It's dangerous over there. You seem like a good person, and I don't want you getting into trouble because of me."
Matthew stopped walking.
"Do you want to save your mother or not?"
"If yes — lead the way."
Nikki went quiet. She stood there for a moment, clearly working through it. Then she turned and started walking.
Matthew followed her.
Behind them both, from behind a public phone booth that was offering approximately no concealment for someone of his dimensions, Walrus watched the adult male he had been surveilling walk off down the street with a small girl.
His expression went very serious.
He pressed the radio.
"This is Walrus. I'm maintaining surveillance on the adult male from my previous report." A pause. "Based on what I'm seeing, I believe this individual may have predatory intentions toward minors. He's currently walking away from the area with a girl I'd estimate at under ten years old. He was also previously distributing knives, cigarettes, and alcohol to homeless individuals. I believe this person may have both predatory tendencies and some form of mental illness."
The radio crackled. "Walrus, keep observing. If you get something concrete, report back and we'll send backup immediately."
Walrus stood there for a moment. He did not say anything over the radio. He kept walking.
Hell's Kitchen.
In the geography of the Marvel universe's New York, which was already a city that had seen things, Hell's Kitchen was the specific neighborhood where the worst of it concentrated. Eight blocks. By area, not especially large. By everything else, considerably more than eight blocks' worth.
Even in daylight, a random pedestrian crossing certain stretches of Hell's Kitchen could expect, without any particular warning, to feel something hard and cold pressed against their lower back and hear a voice behind them ask if they could "borrow some money." No one in the neighborhood found this surprising.
Gang members conducted their business here openly. The residents who were not involved in that business had made their peace with it as the cost of the rent. Crime was continuous and ambient, like weather.
The patrol cops who were nominally responsible for the area made five thousand dollars a month and had collectively decided that was not enough money to get shot over. The resulting vacuum had been filled by the neighborhood's existing logic, which had its own rules and its own hierarchy and did not especially need the police.
The smell reached Matthew before the block did. The combination of organic decomposition and open drainage, left long enough to develop its own character, was something he would not have predicted even having experienced some notable contenders.
"That is worse," he said, mostly to himself, "than surströmming and fermented amaranth stems combined."
He had not believed such a combination was achievable.
"I don't— we don't actually live here," Nikki said quickly, clearly having heard him. "This is the area where Hell's Kitchen puts its garbage. My home is further in."
Matthew did not need to be told twice. He took Nikki by the hand and moved fast in the direction she indicated, declining to spend a single extra second in the immediate vicinity.