Action Interview: The Others

 Who could have known being an investigative reporter would be THIS dangerous? Matt Folly knew full well to expect things like threats via email or phone, or to even have threats of slander from the lawyers of people who were the subjects of his investigative reports--but this was a completely different matter entirely. He felt a lump in his throat build as the man directly in front of him pointed a pistol directly at his face. He couldn't see the man's face clearly in the darkness, but he could hear him just fine. "Move, newspaper boy--now!" It had all been a setup. He had been under the impression he was meeting with a mob informant working for Carmine Falcone, but it was obvious now that the tables had been turned on him. The meeting place had been a telephone booth not far from "The Slums", and as he entered to place a call to the number he had been given, two thugs in trench-coats swarmed the booth from a car not far away and began to usher him violently into the backseat of the vehicle.
Matt was thrown into the backseat and one of the men slammed the door--trapping him. A second later, a figure dropped in behind the two men from above. Though the darkness prevented him from seeing the man clearly, one thing stood out above all others. The Eyes. The glowing bluish-tinted eyes and the cowl that housed them. Though the man was caped, he landed silently behind the two men--with obvious bad intentions.
 

An explosive exhale broke the silence as the man plowed his first nearly THROUGH the man with the pistol in hand, but his attack didn't stop there. He resembled a dancer moving to the music of a violent routine as he continued to plow the man with vicious hand strikes and kicks--Matt lost count at how many times the thug had been struck, and could only cringe as the sickening cracks of broken bones and other crippling injuries stiffened the man's battered body before he began a free-fall towards the concrete. Time flowed into slow-motion, and before the first man's body met earth, the caped figure executed a form-perfect roundhouse kick that turned the second man's head completely sideways. He didn't stop there, with speed Matt didn't know existed, the costumed man delivered atleast eight blows to the man's solar plexus in the space of an instant. The costumed figure stood still for an instant in a macabre combat pose--and time returned to normal as both men's unconscious bodies met concrete simultaneously.

The figure opened the rear door and slowly extended his hand to Matt as the gaze and glow of the eerie blue eyes mesmerized him. He spoke in even and confident tones. "More of Falcone's men are on their way. Come with me if you want to live."


Everything was happening so fast, Matt's next recollection was being pushed into a rundown-looking Brownstone near the Slums and the costumed man using the multiple locks on the door behind them. "There's a refrigerator downstairs with food..there's a TV as well...GO. NOW." This was obviously some kind of Safehouse, but who was this man? Could he be trusted? Before Matt headed anywhere he needed some answers:

Who? Who are you?
...Revenant.
What is this place?
Safe.  Secure.  That's all you need to know.
How do I know I can trust you?
You don't.  The unknown breeds paranoia and suspicion.  Maybe you'd be more comfortable with Falcone's men...

Matt looked at his feet--embarassed. He was right and he knew it, his whole world depended on this man...this Force of Nature, right now. He was the only reason Matt was still breathing and he knew it. Revenant pointed at the cot in the corner and spoke in even tones. "Rest Mr. Folly, it's going to be a long night." Matt shuffled over to the makeshift bed and sat down. His mind was spinning, he was overwhelmed. Who could sleep at a time like this? He laid down anyway, and before ten minutes had passed he was fast asleep--exhausted by the stress.

When he awoke, it was dark but the room's single lamp gave him enough dim light to see. For a moment he was confused, but memory came crashing down on him immediately. So it hadn't been a dream. He really was here--wherever the hell that was. Matt was starving. Almost too frightened to move, a second later he remembered what the "mask" had said about food downstairs. Moving slowly and cautiously he tip-toed down the stairs into the room below. The room was largely barren save a table with three chairs, the refrigerator and the television that the costumed man was watching intently. The place was a dump, and was poorly lighted because all of the windows had been painted black. Revenant's head cocked to the side as Matt came to the bottom of the stairs, but his eyes never left the television. Matt hated being ignored.

So? Why do you do it? How can it make sense to risk your life for people you don't even know?
The world is full of madmen.  What's one more?
Carmine Falcone has more than 100 homicides that he's been suspected of, doesn't that intimidate you?
(Laughs mockingly)  One hundred?  That's your estimate?  Dig deeper, Mister Folly.
I'm gonna die, aren't I?
Yes.  But not tonight.
How long have you been here in Gotham?
Long enough.  Not all of us want the Batman's publicity.
You've gotta be a crazy man..What's preventing the press from revealing your identity if you're ever killed? It'd be the biggest story in years--regardless of how much it'd put your loved ones and relatives at risk.
Don't waste my time...or yours.  There's nothing beneath this mask but flesh and bone.  Nothing to reveal.  This is who I am.  All I am.

 A lump formed in Matt's throat as the man's words resonated throughout the room. For some reason he wasn't hungry anymore. He slowly backed up the stairs and tried to stop shivering as he willed himself to sleep.

Hours later, hunger pangs woke him like an alarm clock. Fear was cast aside as he descended the steps once again, looking from right to left. He wasn't here--Thank God. He quickly tore into the refrigerator and inhaled the three sandwiches he made almost instantly. He was ravenous, and for a moment all he could think about what more food until he sensed movement behind him. He whirled around and found himself face to face with another "mask". The man wore a black a black and blue bodysuit and Matt's eyes widened as arcs of what looked like electricity lanced from his body every few seconds or so. By instince he started to step backwards and only stopped when he backed into the sink. Before he could utter a word, the man raised his hands to reassure him and spoke.

Calm down, buddy. I'm with the organization that's protecting you right now. I'm Circuit, and it looks like it's my shift to make sure you're safe for a few hours.
Shift? Hours? What is this...this...group? And what do you even consider yourselves?
You met Rev? He's the leader. The Hornet assists... what do we consider ourselves? I don't know. We don't consider ourselves anything. We just get things done that need doing.
Why are you protecting me?
At this moment you sort of need it, I'd say.
What the hell is that? (Matt pointed at the crackling blue energy dancing purposefully around the man)
"That" is exobyte-generated irony, otherwise known as my so-called "super" power. I can generate, control and project electricity.
How long have you been bringing people here?
I don't know. I just joined. From the looks of those locks and the general state of this safehouse, I'd say... I don't know. My guess is that we don't like to bring anyone here and that now that it's location has been compromised by your being here it will be stripped and abandoned as soon as you leave.
How long am I going to stay here?
We're working on that. (Circuit checks his wrist comm) Gotta go. Stay out of trouble.

Matt exhaled as the man left the room. What the hell was going on here? His brain was overwhelmed. Sleep was the only way to deal with this situation right now. He just wanted to rest again. Maybe he'd get more answers when he woke up. he ascended the stairs again and pulled the covers over his head as he laid down.

His stupor was interrupted by a gentle nudge. He opened his eyes slowly and was greeted by a face that he recognized from several news reports and urban legend. The Hornet was one of Gotham's more notable vigilantes. His one-man war on organized crime had scared more than a few criminals into retirement and he had been a fixture on the front page of several newspapers--including his. The Hornet Spoke, hos voice was more "normal" than Matt would have imagined it. "Had to make sure you were still with us, you've been out for over twelve hours by my count."

Matt was groggy, What..what day is it? How long have I been here?
It's the day after yesterday. You've been here less than 24 hours. Chill out. You...um... you want a sandwich?
What's preventing Falcone's thugs from executing me the minute I step foot outside?
We're working on that. It takes a little time to ensure that Falcone's people are dealt with in such a manner that they will decide on their own to let you live. Capiche..?
I KNOW you, you're the Hornet aren't you? Where you aware there's a criminal bounty on your head?
He stared at Matt for a moment with his green-glowing lenses, head slightly cocked to one side) Of course I'm The Hornet. Jeez. I mean, I don't really like to do the whole "theme" thing... wear wings or antennae or have some goofy hornet symbol on my chest, but I'd like to think I'm memorable.
Yes, I am aware of the bounty on my head. It's very flattering. What better proof of effectiveness could I ask for?
Am I ever going home?
You realize I asked you several minutes ago now if you wanted a sandwich and that you have yet to answer? That's impolite. At any rate, you'll be going home as soon as you are safe to do so without Falcone's men trying to shoot you in the face before dumping your corpse in the river.
Do you think what you do makes a difference? Some people say your existence motivates criminals even more.
I know what I do makes a difference. You are alive right now, are you not? The people who say that I or we motivate criminals by merely existing are wrong, and more than certainly trying to find someone or something to blame for the fear and anger they feel due to not feeling safe. Since they are powerless to fight or even speak out against their oppressors, they blame people like myself for agitating and escalating the situation. The real question is, Mr. Folly, do you make a difference? That's what people should be asking themselves. Filthy little worms.
 
Now then, how about that sandwich?