Long before he'd been caught in the explosion of fire and radiation that unleashed his monstrous id upon a defenseless world, Dr. Robert Bruce Banner had decided that there was no God. No Heaven. No Eternity into which his dead soul could hope to someday wander. In his more optimistic moments, he hoped the universe was governed by karma, and justice meted out through reincarnation. In that case, at least, he could look forward to something better in the next life. Lord knew he'd suffered enough during this one for the next twenty lifetimes.

But Heaven? No, ridiculous. Even after all the fantastic things he'd seen, he still couldn't bring himself to believe in that.

Which is why he wasn't quite as dumbfounded as the rest of the Defenders when a naked, winged man claiming to be an archangel converted them to angel song and transmitted them along an invisible ray of celestial light to what he said was the first circle of Heaven.

Kurt Wagner, Catholic priest and former X-Man, stood in the warm glow of light emanating from the Archangel Gabriel and steeled himself against the tears that wanted to spill over his cheeks. Every man and woman in his calling dreamed of this, of standing in the presence of the recognizably and unequivocally divine. Despite the natural cynicism brought on by years of battling demigods and self-proclaimed messiahs, Kurt knew, to the depths of his soul, that the winged man standing before him on this white plain, lifting a flaming sword above his head, was the real thing.

Gabriel let out a cry of simultaneous rage and beauty, an ululating symphony of holy power that echoed over the plain. And it occurred to Kurt that Heaven, for all its representation in Earthly mediums as a place of light and vision, was neither of these things. True it was bright, and the visual beauty here, even in this level white field, was almost painful in its purity. But Heaven, to be well and truly understood, needed to be heard. The sound of the angel's voice, the constant background hum of holy power running through this place like blood.

Heaven is sound. This is what Kurt Wagner was thinking as the distant shushing of thousands of flapping wings sounded over the plain.

Dane Whitman fell to one knee as the sound of the wings' approach grew and grew. He was standing on the lowest edge of Heaven, the circle closest to Earth and farthest from God, and still he was humbled by everything here. He felt unworthy to touch the soil of this place, and for a moment the mission given to him by Merlin and Arthur crumbled away, shattered by his own humility.

And then the Ebony Blade began to sing in the scabbard at his side, adding its darker, basso profundo note to the general chorus. And Dane remembered who he was and why he was needed here. He gripped the hilt of the Blade and waited with his fellow Defenders.

Natasha Romanov was not a superhero. She was an espionage agent. Sure, as the Black Widow she'd fought beside, and even led, the Avengers, and she'd been with the Defenders for a while now too, but in all that time she had never--never--felt so out of her depth as she did at that moment.

There were men--angry, flying men with flaming swords--sweeping across this plain toward them on feathered wings. She had grown up in Communist Russia, and so she had never been a believer in the Christian or the Jesuit God. But whatever these beings were, they radiated a presence and a power that were greater even than Thor's. She readied the widow's bite bracelets on her wrists. Whatever was going on here, Matt--Daredevil--was surely in danger, and she'd been the one to send him into it. She would have to be ready to act.

Brunnhilde stood at the side of the archangel, watching him call his brethren home, and wondered if this was what mortals felt like when her sisters in the Valkyrior rode in after a battle to claim their souls. She, who was rarely impressed by warrior's might, was, in this instance, awed. There were thousands of the winged men. All coming here.

"You are ready, sister?"

Brunnhilde looked around at the archangel who had brought them here. Gabriel. His presence was...intoxicating. She'd never felt so drawn to another being before, both physically and spiritually...and never had she felt so unworthy to stand in another's presence. Her humility had nothing to do with the angel's perfection, and everything to do with her lack of same. She could still feel, if she allowed herself to, her violent rape at the orange-clawed hands of a man she had once called friend. Could hear Isaac mocking, spitting on her even as he took her maidenhead.

She was impure. So how could she hope to stand with a being that remained so perfect? And yet, he had called her 'sister'...

In a rush of bludgeoned air, the seraphim arrived, dropping to the white soil of Heaven's first circle with a thunder that was oddly comforting. There were thousands of them, an endless field of feathers and perfectly sculpted bodies.

"Yes, I am ready," she said finally, gripping Dragonfang's hilt. "Let us away."

Gabriel began to sing again. And this time he was joined by his brothers, their voices rising up, up, up until it seemed the firmament itself must crack. And, amazingly, that's just what it did.

The white sky cracked down the middle at the onslaught of the gathered seraphic voices. The Black Veil was torn asunder, and the road into Hell thrown wide. The Defenders and the seraphim plunged through it.

The barren dirt of Hell pulled together in a clump, piling over seven feet high. Legs, torso, arms - the head solidifying last.

“My brother,” said Blackheart, once his body was fully formed. The crimson-brown soil behind him coughed up three bodies, dirt caching each. Dark tendrils presented Magik, Nighthawk, and the Sub-Mariner. The latter was unconscious, burned, and limp as a ragdoll.

Illyana sputtered, close to vomiting. “Blagh! Blagh! Good God - that was disgusting.” She shut her mouth quickly, realizing what she said and where she was, unable to rub the muck from her eyes. She saw a staircase of jagged rocks form for Blackheart as he approached what looked like a twisted altar on a stage. Facing the stage, standing at ground level, were hundreds of people - rather beings, she realized - divided into two groups by a long carpet leading to the stage.

Blackheart looked in that direction, over the faces. Not faces - names. Synonyms for the word evil. The time drew nearer.

“My brother,” Daimon echoed. He rose from his throne, leaving the side of his wife-to-be, and met Blackheart close to the edge of the makeshift stage. “I see that guests are already arriving.”

“Indeed.”

The prince flicked his ruby-colored eyes up, studying something on Blackheart’s face. “Arriving and going about business as usual,” he said. Daimon could see straight through the hole in Blackheart’s head, past the obsidian gore that filled it. Blood like oil still dabbed the outside of the wound. Son of Mephisto or otherwise, Blackheart is rarely injured in battle.

“Indeed.”

“He attacked us,” Magik said. “So I attacked him.”

“Hush, girl,” Blackheart hissed, spinning to face her. Illyana remained straight-faced. “Naughty little wench. You see where it got you, now, don’t you? Yes. And those tentacles are good for more than holding, you-“

“Blackheart.” Daimon’s voice was nothing more than before, yet Blackheart gave the prince his undivided attention. “Not here. Not in front of my bride,” he gestured back to the red-haired beauty. “Not on our wedding day.”

“Wedding day?” Nighthawk had stopped struggling. There was enough to wrestle with as it was. His back still ached where his leathery wings had broken free of the skin. He looked to his side at Namor, king of all Atlantis, twitching randomly, skin bubbling in places, falling in and out of consciousness. Hell was not a place for the Sub-Mariner.

And further away, beyond the two brothers, alone on the double throne: Nighthawk’s friend, Patsy Walker. Hellcat. He could see, with his devil-eyes, the taint that hung about her like a stench. She smiled distantly. “Wedding day...”

Blackheart hung his less-than-whole head.

“Not yet, at least,” Daimon added. He then noticed the shining thing in Blackheart’s hands. It was a sword of ethereal metal, its sheen so pure compared to the flames of Hell that his eyes almost hurt. “Questioning your own power, Blackheart?”

“Ah. The girl used this,” Blackheart admitted, holding the blade out horizontally. “It came from the air itself. She hurt me with it, Daimon. She hurt me. I have made new bodies and the wound stays.”

The sword felt light in Daimon’s hands. It was beautiful. He ran one long-nailed finger along the blade’s edge and withdrew quickly. Reddest blood dripped from the tiny cut in Daimon’s finger. He sucked it clean and smiled with lips that looked painted.

“What do you call this, young lady?” he asked.

Illyana stared back at the prince like no peasant should look at royalty. A moment later, she was gasping and kicking at the tendril encircling her as it threatened to thin her lithe hips even further.

“Answer him,” Blackheart commanded.

Magik held out until she nearly blacked out, then choked, “Soul...sword...”

Daimon made a fanged smirk. “Soulsword.” He studied it again. “Haha! Soulsword. What do you know about souls, little girl?” She didn’t answer. “Aside from the name, this is a fine blade.” He looked at Blackheart. “And a fine wedding gift.”

The word made its way through Nighthawk’s labyrinth mind to the man buried inside, where it reverberated: wedding.

Blackheart nodded. “Of course, brother. It is yours.”

“Daimon.”

The brothers looked up. “Kyle Richmond. It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

“Not long enough since I’ve seen you or this place,” Nighthawk said calmly, his voice gravelly, as a demon’s should be. “You’re sick...”

“Oh!” Daimon half-barked, and the sound snapped out from the stage to Nighthawk, making every single imprisoned hell-lord twitch in fear at its passing. “Oh, I’m sick. I’ve heard of your problem, Kyle. And I used to suffer the same confusion you do. I thought I could be one of them, too.”

“One of-?”

“Them! Normal. Human. Mortal. You saw me struggle to be one. And look at me now! I’m not trying to serve in Heaven. I’m reigning in Hell. I’ve accepted what I am. I suggest trying the same.”

The man-demons shared an intense stare.

“You gave up is what you did,” Nighthawk, or Kyle, finally said, quite clearly. “And now you’re having to force a girl to marry you.”

“Patsy loves me, Kyle,” Daimon said. “She is my queen, as she has always been. She was the whole reason I put on the façade - walked among you. It didn’t work. So now she’s changed for me. Hell is ours-”

“You’re the son of Satan,” Illyana interjected. “That makes you prince, not lord.”

Daimon eyed her briefly, annoyed. “You’re blind, aren’t you? Look around you, little sorceress. Look at our audience.” She did and remained quiet. “They’re temporary guests.

“Did you know that with every belief, a counter-belief is created? For all the good thoughts, generous gods and angels created from man’s need for worship, an evil counterpart is born. And with each of those births, a portion of the true Hell’s power is diminished.

“Mephisto. Thog. Even Belasco - existence is getting crowded. No, it’s been that way for some time. And I’m the only one that will actually fix

The soulsword glowed brighter in Daimon’s hands. He held it away from his body.

“Belasco?” Illyana asked.

“His Limbo is ripped from the shadow that the true Hell casts. His being is a parody of the idea of the Devil.”

“Then why isn’t the Devil-“

“My father is a failure,” Daimon said, biting out the words. “He failed in the Great Rebellion. Over and over, he loses. So I dethroned him. And where he failed - where he made mistakes - I will succeed.”

Up went the sword, just like Daimon’s voice.

“First, we wed. And then I feast. The pretenders will die, each of their little Limbos and Hells dying with them. And all that stolen power will return to me. Won’t that be nice? To not have to worry about Pluto and Hela and Satannish and all the others? Instead you’ll just have me.”

Nighthawk stared up at the sword, blinding his dark eyes.

“Then comes Heaven - and...whatever falls between. You’ve fallen between me and power, Kyle,” Daimon turned to Nighthawk now. “Your little bit of Mephisto is still rightfully mine. I can take it back.”

Again, the soulsword flashed. Namor groaned at Nighthawk’s side, convulsing. Light shone on his burns as a horrible shredding, ripping of membrane sounded. Nighthawk didn’t make a sound - just writhed as Daimon severed his right wing in one swift cut.

“P-Patsy! Augh...” White hot pain, sweat in his eyes. He doubled over in his restraints. “God, heeaaaaghhh!”

“We’ll see if you maybe would rather stay a demon...” Daimon said. Illyana watched but remained still, helpless, as her sword flashed once more, and that awful tearing sound came again. Then came the sickening thud as the second wing fell to the ground. The screaming stopped. Daimon dug his nails into Nighthawk’s chin, forcing him too look up.

“Sorry,” he said, like some careless boy. “I just needed to get it out. Issues with Dad, you know. Consider it your wedding present to me.” Daimon wiped the blood, dark enough to be brown, off the soulsword on Nighthawk’s ripped costume, then alighted on the stage.

He began making his way back toward the thrones, which seemed to drift together more with each step he took. He spoke without looking back, eyes fixed on one thing alone.

“Brother,” he said, and Blackheart’s head came up. “I don’t know about anyone else, but I’m tired of waiting. I’m ready to get on with it. Now. Aren’t you, dear?”

Patsy Walker looked up, like she’d been awakened from a light nap. A pleasant smile slid across her face.

“Yes. Yes, of course.”

The king-in-waiting turned to his brother, the soulsword gleaming in one hand, holding his bride’s in the other tightly enough for it to hurt. She was numb head to toe.

“You heard your sister-in-law. Call the demons, the punished. Call them all. We begin within the hour.”

"Matt. Wake up, darling."

Matt Murdock came back to his senses with a start. A hand was on his cheek, and it felt--and smelled--familiar. He knew every contour on that hand, the tiny scar on one finger where its owner had sliced it on a broken glass when she was nine. The scent of fresh soap that always hung about her palms and wrists, like she could never quite believe that she'd scrubbed them clean.

"Karen?"

"Oh Matt, what are you doing here?" the love of his life said as he sat up and turned his face toward her. "You couldn't have been sent here. Not you, never you."

Matt shook his head, trying to gain his bearings. Wherever they were, it was cold. Very cold. He was lying in a drift of snow. How had he got here? And how could Karen be here? She was...

And then he remembered. The peyote button, the violence it had wrought upon his enhanced senses, and then Devil-Slayer leading the Defenders into Hell. He remembered nothing once they'd stepped through the blasted doorway, except...it had been hot. Appallingly hot.

And now here he was lying in a snowdrift, talking to his dead girlfriend.

"You're a delusion," he said, holding his aching head.

"No, Matt. No, I'm not." She touched his face again, and damnit, she felt real. Not like a drug-induced hallucination, but like a real, breathing person. "I wish I was, but..." She looked away, Matt could hear her heart speed up in anticipation of her confession, "Think of the things I did during my life, Matt. Prostitute, betrayer. Would you expect me to go to the other place?"

"You died for me."

"I guess that didn't balance the scales. God, Matt...it's so good to see you, but not this way."

Matt touched her hand, felt the familiar, light fuzz of hair across the back of it. So convincing.

"We're in Hell," he said.

"We're in Hell," she confirmed.

"I can't accept that you're here." He stood up and turned away, his radar sense echoing back an endless, powdery plain of snow. "The last thing I remember is heat."

"Things change quickly here. It goes from hot to cold in the blink of an eye. Nothing is constant." A beat of silence, and then her voice again, deeper, throatier. "Especially not you."

Matt Murdock's radar sense sketched out the change in 'Karen's' shape behind him. He couldn't make out the fine details, but he sensed the head elongating, the mouth hinging open, impossibly long against her breasts, the prehensile tongue wagging out toward the back of his neck.

In one fluid movement, and without turning toward the creature, he slipped his billy club free of the holster on his hip and jammed it into the doppelganger's jaws. The demon that had assumed Karen's shape emitted an "urk!" and fell backward, struggling with the object pinioning its mouth open.

"Matthew, Matthew," a new voice chided. "So unnecessarily rough with the rabble."

Daredevil let his radar sense glide over the new arrival. Whatever the thing's shape was, it was uncertain enough to confound most of his senses. Most, but not all. He knew that voice.

"Hello Mephisto," he said. "That was a dirty trick."

"What? The succubus?" The demon-lord was squatting atop a stand of snow-covered rock, and Daredevil sensed him extend his arm toward the choking demon. "I had nothing to do with that. Your own inner turmoil drew it here...though I admit to standing idly by to see how it fared against you."

"What are you doing here?"

"This is my home, trespasser," Mephisto said lightly, and suddenly he was gone from the rock and standing beside him. Daredevil threw out a fist, but now the demon was standing on the other side.

"Aren't you going to ask me where the rest of your Defenders are?"

"Actually, I'd hoped to beat it out of you, but that doesn't seem likely, does it?" Putting his back to Mephisto, he walked back to the succubus, placed a foot on its chest, and yanked his billy club roughly out of its mouth. The creature howled, and started to get to its feet, murder in its eyes as Daredevil turned away.

"No more games, Mephisto. Where are my friends?"

The succubus leaped at him, its jaws swinging wide again...but vanished in a puff of brimstone not a foot from Daredevil's back.

"Bothersome pestilence," Mephisto opined, clapping his hands together. He turned to Daredevil. "Very well then, Matthew. Come along."

There was an impact against his chest, and the snowscape seemed to blur away around him. When the sensation stopped, he was standing on a rocky crag, the familiar heat and smell pounding his enhanced senses.

"Where are we?"

"Look down," Mephisto said at his elbow. "Or 'ping' down in your case. Tell me if you see anybody you recognize."

Daredevil crouched, one hand on the edge of the rock, and focused his attention into the pit that opened up in front of him. It took him a moment to filter through the voices and smells, but once he knew who to listen to, he figured out what was going on quickly.

"Hellstrom is killing and absorbing the power of all those demons." He looked around at Mephisto. "I suppose you're in league with him."

Mephisto's eyes twitched in amusement. "What makes you think that?"

"You're not down there, bound with the others, are you?"

"If I was in league with him, you would be the one bound beside your comrades, not I. But no...Hellstrom's schemes came to fruition only recently, while my attentions were diverted...elsewhere.* Otherwise, I'd have stopped him long before he got this far. You've probably noted that my despised son has thrown in with the rogue, however."

(* Check out current issues of Wolverine to see what Mephisto has been up to -- Russ and Will)

Daredevil noted the familiar shape of Blackheart at Hellstrom's side. Unmoved, he turned his radar sense to the heady task of picking the Defenders out of the mass of bodies below. He found them, heard the barely-conscious groans of Nighthawk and smelled the boiling flesh of Namor. He puzzled over the contented sighs Hellcat was making from what looked an awful lot like a throne. But...

"Where are the others?" he demanded. "Strange, Devil-Slayer, and Regina. I don't sense any of them."

"Ah...that. Now that is another matter altogether. It seems I'm not the only one Hellstrom 'missed', and that other has captured your remaining allies."

Daredevil's eyes narrowed--a habit left over from the days he'd actually been able to stare people down. "What's your game, Mephisto? Why are you giving me all this information? And why aren't you doing anything about Hellstrom?"

"Who said I wasn't doing anything about Hellstrom?" Mephisto wheedled. "As for the information I'm handing you... It amuses me to see you dance. Now." He stepped aside and swept an arm to his right, in the opposite direction of the rocky cliff they'd just peeked over. "Strange and the others are that way. Choose who you're going to rescue first, little Devil."

It had been a most wonderful ceremony; a gaunt soul had played perfect tri-tones on an organ of bones as the audience waited in hushed anticipation. Most weren’t sure whether they wanted it to go faster or slower; either way, the end was imminent.

Daimon walked down the aisle with a succubus at his arm, who left him with a lingering touch as he approached the stage. There was a podium of black shells and hardened insect armor, and behind it, Blackheart - presiding and best man.

The music grew louder, a swirling cacophony that encompassed all else, as she made her way between the two groups of Hell-lords. The horde of neverborne grasped at rocky steeps and hovered on batty wings as the pale shades of dead men watched indifferently with their milky gazes. All that could be seen was her dress; darkest satin that covered her almost completely. It made her fair skin seem snow white where it showed--around her neck and, to a lesser degree, her face behind the black veil. Cherubim hopped around carrying the dress’s slack in her wake.

It was one slow stride after another. Her glazed blue eyes stared straight ahead at one goal: her devilishly handsome love. They would be married today. Again.

The couple came to stand before Blackheart as he read from the New Book of the Law, which Daimon had put the finishing touches on earlier that day. It was a story about facades, evil fathers, and the beautiful fire burning within all things that must be freed.

Then he read them their vows in his inhuman, gravelly voice. Blackheart made them promise that they would rule together - over fire, earth, and cloud; that their love would survive battle, war, and death, as they would suffer none of the latter.

“I do,” Daimon said as he faced his bride. Blackheart read Patsy’s vows, which she repeated obediently like a child. They had almost reached the end, Daimon realized. He had done it. The feasting would soon begin. Blackheart finished. It was up to Patsy. She held a moment of silence, grasped in her hand giddily, unknowingly a torture to the captive audience. It was to be the last moment before her life truly began...again.

A breath raised in her throat. “I-”

Her next word was drowned out, if it was even spoken. The sound was so loud; it shook deeper than the body, a sustained note vibrating all the land. Some of the demons were grabbing their ears, howling, hoping to overpower it. But whatever drove the note was a far higher power than these lowly demons.

The red sky split open like a cracked skull. The entire wedding was frozen, and for a second, nothing happened. Then he came plummeting through, falling with his sword pointed straight down until it drove with all his weight into the torso of a serpent demon. There was a beat of stunned silence, and then the Black Knight pulled the Ebony Blade free, and stood confidently on the quivering body.

Above, the rift opened further, and all of Heaven spilled forth.

Gabriel led his brothers in on flaming wings, carrying maces, swords, and shields, swooping like raptors on the damned. Behind, dark in comparison, were the Hulk, Nightcrawler, Black Widow, and the Valkyrie, practically falling out as the Knight had.

Daimon had long since turned from the altar. He looked out past the audience and saw his kingdom assailed. He smiled.

“So the reception begins early,” he said and looked at Patsy. “Don’t worry, love,” he lifted her black veil, “we aren’t done yet.” He placed a goodbye kiss on her rosy lips and leapt off the stage with soulsword in hand.

Blackheart had already broken up into the ground around the stage; Patsy could feel him moving away below her feet. She cast her eyes out to the fields.

Angelic strength swung flaming blades through leathery bellies as Hell’s claws tore into the luminescent skin of the seraphim. Bodies and feathers already littered the barren crags.

“For Heaven!” Gabriel cried, raising his flaming blade and taking three demons with it. Valkyrie wasn’t far behind, and she ran in with her own sword ready.

“Yes,” she said, swinging violently, then more quietly, “for honor.”

Nightcrawler watched them both between bamfs and well-placed punches. His three-fingered hand itched for a sword, but he made do. For once, it was a commodity to look as he did. Hell’s army was not smart - most ignored what looked like one of their own.

The Hulk fought without a word. Two pointy-eared heads were cronched in one massive hand, while the other crushed the very ground of Hell and fell Daimon’s soldiers.

“Ragh-!” he grunted at the pain in his leg. He looked and saw a lone head, freshly separated from body, gnawing vigilantly at his Achilles’ tendon. With a guttural cry, the Hulk stamped the head into a stain and continued lashing out without care.

A black pillar rose out of the cracked ground and began to take shape. The Hulk turned his attention to it, but no matter how hard he hit it, it continued to take form until it was a pillar no more. Blackheart caught the Hulk’s fists and leaned in eye-to-eye with the man-monster.

“Sad creature,” he said, trying to crush the green hands. "Your leash is almost chewed through, isn't it?"

He was surprised to feel one of the massive fists pull free and plow clear through his chest. The Hulk made an unintelligible noise and Blackheart smiled as his chest reformed around the arm inside him.

Like a duet, the Black Knight and Widow took turns laying into the surrounding hordes, striking at once when necessary. They were literally back-to-back, resting their legs, feeling the other's body heat.

“Where’s - hh,” Natasha said, kicking hard at the wall of red flesh that rushed what they saw as two simple meatbags. “Where’s Stephen?”

They circled in unison - four legs, one warrior - and Dane was bathed in boiling netherblood.

“Don’t know,” he breathed. “I see Namor and someone else over there. No doctor.”

Rotating again, the Widow struggled to see over the heads of the army. “It’s Nighthawk and Illyana-“

“Watch out.” The Ebony Blade sliced past her face and slashed off a thorny brown hand grasping for her hair. She nodded in thanks.

“I think you’re going to have to free them. Looks like - like-“ she ducked a claw and put her fingers right where they would knock a human out. It was painful enough for the seven-armed thing, which whimpered and pulled back.

“I’m not leaving you alone.”

“Oh, don’t even start,” Natasha said, elbowing him. “Go.”

The Black Knight hesitated, then broke free of their gestalt and began to hack his way to the three captives. When he looked back, he could see nothing but the unholy army around Natasha. They were falling. He turned around and ran into something solid.

“Well.”

Somebody solid. Daimon pointed the tip of his wedding gift - Illyana's soulsword - at Dane’s chest. “Care to duel?” he asked. Dane eyed his goal. “I’ll trade you - a good fight for them.”

Without another word, Dane raised his weapon. And just as the two swordsmen took their stances, the ground quaked. No, no quake. It was a rhythm, pounding over and over. And it was growing like a strengthening heart beat. Steady. Drudging.

War drums sounded from somewhere behind Dane. They marched to a beat of six. It was another army, led by an orange demon and...and...

Daimon looked up, almost costing himself his head as Dane, unfazed, drove forward with the Ebony Blade. He blocked, but couldn’t tear his eyes away from the direction of the drums. Another army. And at it's head...

“Father...?”

Hell quaked.

Oh.

His radar could have been weirding out on him. Could have been. But he had a feeling it wasn’t. Daredevil had reached as far up the side of the structure as his radar sense would allow, trying to gain some sense of how tall it was. He was getting nothing but solid wall and open sky, and he had the unsettling feeling that this wall had no upper edge. It just went on and on, up and up forever.

It should have gone without saying, but he was really starting to hate this place.

“A waste of your time, as I told you.” Mephisto stood a distance behind him. “No use trying to measure things here. This is Hell. We have a scale all our own.”

Apparently so. Not only could Daredevil not figure out the height of the fortress; he could just faintly hear the heartbeats inside, the most important one being the slow but familiar lub-dub of Stephen Strange. If anyone was necessary in situations like this - well, it was him.

Daredevil's own heart had settled somewhat since he'd had to duck out of sight of an army earlier as it had departed through the fortress' gates. There were so many, he'd barely been able to get an idea of any of them. They had stunk badly, though, and the two leading the pack smelled familiar. Almost like...Mark?

They had marched in sixes and took their time doing it. Steady, proud, confident. And large, as well. They came out of the fortress and left it empty save three souls: Dr. Strange, the Devil-Slayer, and Gina Garney.

“Mm,” Matt murmured, feeling the entrance. Of course there wasn’t a way in. When would it be that easy? Certainly not since he joined up with the Defenders. And certainly not since he’d come to Hell.

“It would appear you made the lesser choice, Matthew,” said Mephisto, closer now. “Friends locked away here while others are fighting the forces of Hell itself. And you’re helpless, a blind street-fighter among the damned. Simply delicious.” Closer again. “Tell me - for my own amusement, of course - what do you plan to do, Matthew?”

This wasn’t like fighting drug-dealers, or gang members, or even the Kingpin. Those things Matt Murdock was used to; they involved earthly evils he was, in retrospect and in comparison, beginning to cherish. He missed the mean streets of Hell’s Kitchen.

Hell’s Kitchen. The courtroom. Matt of all people knew that, sometimes, you have to play the devils’ games to make sure you came out on top.

Why did this have to be any different? It wasn’t about Matt or Natasha or any of the Defenders anymore. He’d just been almost run over by the army of Satan himself. What they needed was the supreme sorcerer; he was the last hope.

And Matt was his last hope.

Daredevil turned around. Mephisto loomed over him, waiting patiently.

“Well?” the demon asked. Matt put on his court voice.

“I’ve done some thinking.”

“Yes?”

“Basically, this looks like a losing situation. I’m helpless right here, and I’m close to it out there, too. I figure - what have I got to lose? I’m already in Hell.” He swallowed. It burned slightly. Mephisto was listening.

“So listen. As long as I’ve dealt with you, you’ve had only one goal - souls. You want them. And you know who’s got one?” Matt could almost hear the devil salivating. “Yes. Me. You’ve been after mine for a while. The way I see it, if I do nothing, we’re all going to suffer. So I’m going to make you a deal:

“My soul for my friends in this fortress here. Free them; don’t mess with them once they get out, and get them to where they can help against Daimon. Do that and you can have what you want of mine.”

Everything stood still. Mephisto wetted his lips before speaking.

“You...are making me an offer? You.”

“Me,” Matt nodded.

Mephisto would have turned redder if he could have. It was a frustrating situation; he had been hiding so well thus far, biding his time until Daimon made the inevitable mistake that would put him, Mephisto, back on top. If he did this, he risked exposing himself. Certainly it wouldn’t go unnoticed.

But this was Daredevil. Only the Surfer had a soul like that.

“And what makes you so sure,” Mephisto asked snidely, still playing his cards close, “that I can even open the fortress of the Fallen One himself? Hmmm?”

Matt took a step back. “Well hey - I guess you’re probably right. I guess a parody of the original couldn’t do much against the real thing.”

Playing the devil’s game. Mephisto smiled a wide snaky grin and wrung his hands. He knew the fortress was nothing. He had decided.

“Yes,” he hissed, then chuckled slightly. “You know this ‘parody’ better than most. You know what I am capable of.”

“And I know what you want.”

“The trade of any successful devil.” One more bit of consideration was needed; but only that. “Fair enough, Matthew. Your soul for your friends within Lucifer’s fortress.”

They shook hands in a grip that felt like a battle. Mephisto was moving towards the castle, speaking over his shoulder to a slightly numb Daredevil.

“And believe me, partner - you will keep your word as I keep mine.”