October 16, 2018:

Danny digs through the past and finds more than just memories.

Rand Tower


NPCs: None.


Mood Music: [*\# None.]

Fade In…

“It was your father’s, so it belongs to you.”

That’s what the company lawyer told Danny when she passed him the paperwork to sign for a half dozen boxes. Rand’s original headquarters has been kept in the company for a few decades as office space for the accounting division. But a tenant is moving out of Rand Tower, allowing the accountants to move under the wing of the company proper.

In the process of cleaning out the five storey brick building, a handful of boxes belonging to Wendell Rand were discovered. Those now sit in Danny’s office. The chaos outside on the streets, the literal hell unleashed? That would be straightforward and welcome compared to digging through a dead man’s belongings.

Danny has been trying to live clean since his brush with Wilson Fisk’s magical barrier shattered his already wounded chi and tamped, if not extinguished, the flame that ignites the Iron Fist. Clarity of purpose has always been his way to the power of Shou-Lou, but the longer he spends in New York, the longer he…defends, the less clear and more muddled his purpose becomes. The only way he knows to course-correct is to try and get back to the habits and techniques he learned in K’un L’un.

Still, he is not made of stone. He pours himself a splash of single malt before prying open the first box.

The next few hours are bouts of boredom and confusion punctuated with emotional gut punches as he finds personal letters or photographs among the business papers. The papers are divided into two piles - one box marked ‘J-Money,’ the other marked ‘Gramercy.’ Business papers in one, personal effects in the other.

At about the two hour mark, Danny finds a pile of photos of his parents at various events. They’re old enough that Danny is either very young or not yet born. The couple look young and vibrant. He reaches for another picture of his pregnant mother and reveals a leather ledger.


Emblazoned onto the cover of the ledger is a very familiar symbol. It is, in fact, the sigil of the Iron Fist - the stylized dragon with thin wings and a flicking tail. He picks up the book. The pages crack and stick from years of stillness. Inside are pages and pages of his father’s slanted, notoriously messy handwriting. There’s drawings and papers stuck in. There is a surprisingly (and chillingly) accurate rendering of the spires of the ancient city, alongside diagrams that look like they’re out of a steampunk nightmare. A cold shock shoots down Danny’s spine. He draws in a sharp gulp of air, then shoots back what’s left in his whiskey glass.

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