A young reporter is granted an interview with a mysterious young "super hero" with an uncomfortably familiar sounding past
He knocked on the door and then wiped his sweaty hands on his pants leg. He hadn't realized how nervous he was. The interview was a long shot anyways. If anything, she was just going to be furious. That is, if he even had the right address. He had gotten his information from a less than reliable source, a friend of a friend of his boss who said he had seen her enter this building and followed her upstairs. For all he knew his "source" could be yanking him around and if so, he had gotten all dressed up for nothing. If this information was reliable though, he at least had a chance of scoring the most important interview of his entire career at the tender age of twenty-three.
No one answered the door so he raised his knuckles to knock again. But before his hand even brushed the door the door opened. Quickly, and unsubtly, he ran his hand through his messy, curly brown hair as though that endeavor had been his reason for raising his arm in the first place. In front of him, in the open doorway stood a girl. The only thing he could think was that she was a lot shorter than he had expected. If, indeed, she was the girl he was looking for.
The term "girl" wasn't necessarily correct. She was probably about his own age, if not older, though her height was misleading. She had long black hair tied back in a high ponytail and a pale, open face with large blue eyes and large, innocent looking lips. But at first glance it was almost impossible to notice any of these things. Instead, all attention was immediately directed to the deep, furrowed scar that ran down her right cheek, starting right outside the corner of her eye and curving in a cresent moon to the corner of her lip. The scar pulled at her lip, turning up the corner a little to give her a permanent smirk.
"What do you want?" she asked. She didn't sound cold or annoyed that there was a stranger at her door, just curious.
"Are you Death Wish?" he asked, having to clear his throat to make sure the question came out as more than just a hoarse, nervous whisper.
She looked at him for a few seconds before answering him, "I hate that name. Of all the damn things the media could think of, that's what they came up with. Anyways, I didn't ask you to return my question with a question, I asked you why you're standing here."
"I'm David Kinsey, I'm a reporter, for the Chronicle," he closed his eyes and started to speak very quickly, "And I know you don't do interviews but I was hoping you would make an exception. I promise not to dramatize things and only give the cold hard facts..." he was starting to repeat the speech he had practiced in the mirror several dozen times before he left home.
"Hey, kid, cut it out," Death Wish interrupted, "You can stop with the monologue. You can have your interview."
"Really?" David squeaked before he realized how utterly unprofessional he sounded, he fidgeted with his blazer and cleared his throat, "I appreciate this very much. I can promise you I'll do a good job and properly present you to the public."
"Sure you will, Davey," she flung the door open, "come on in."
Something about being called Davey tickled his memory, but only for the briefest second underneath all of his adrenaline. She turned around and walked back into her apartment, her bare feet thudding against the tile floor. She was wearing running shorts and a long t-shirt and looked just like any other girl in her twenties, but he knew better than that.
"Just take a seat," she said, waving vaguely at two old armchairs with the stuffing hanging out as she walked over to the corner of the large open room that was the kitchen. She opened the refrigerator and took out a bottle of water as David sat awkwardly in one of the chairs. He unbuttoned the top button of his shirt; he wished he hadn't been dumb enough to wear a suit. He was itchy and hot. He slipped off his blazer as Death Wish ambled over and plopped down sideways in the chair across from him, her legs dangling over the side of her chair.
"Feel free to strip," she commented offhandedly, "I encourage a no clothes policy."
David turned bright pink as he folded his blazer and put it on the arm of the chair.
"Lighten up," Death Wish said before taking a swig of her water, "or else you're not going to last long in this interview. Speaking of which, where should we begin?"