The Devil's Advocate

Chapter One: Prologue

Disclaimer: I own nothing you recognize from Marvel/Netflix. I wish I did, but alas.

One thing I've learned from the years of working in a publication house was that it was imperative for a journalist to have a specific notebook (or journal, depending) that was deemed 'The One'. It was pivotal, incredibly so, as I've just found out, to have this particular journal follow you wherever you went and being well within reach of your person just in case a certain phrase or idea popped into your head and refused to allow leeway for other notions until you jotted it down.

As I was given the regrettable opportunity to experience not having my notebook with me right before an interview, I had to settle for recording the session on my cellphone, and scribbling down my thoughts on the back of an old article which had been rejected for printing, consequences that greatly irritated me. My journal was filled with ideas, research and quotes (and the occasional sketches of my interviewees) for all the articles I've written so far and having to settle for a crumpled piece of paper instead of the smooth, lined page of my Moleskine, left a bad taste in my mouth.

Still, I trudged home, despite the feeling of discomfit by the lack of weight in my coat pocket, in order to complete the piece that Ellison had demanded to be on his desk the following afternoon. It was an article about an ongoing sensation that had most of Hell's Kitchen intrigued, and he had been hoping to cash in on that. It was why Ellison had originally wanted it in by the end of the day (which for us meant anytime before work started at the office), but I had refused, frustrated that I had to rush out an article about a subject that I was putting my entire heart and soul into researching. We spent the better part of my break time arguing about the deadline, until Ellison gave in when I threatened to call off the interview and burn all the information I've gathered of the Man in the Mask.

Nobody in the office wanted to take on the assignment about the newly branded vigilante of Hell's Kitchen for fear of him coming after them in a raging vengeance, until I volunteered myself for it. I had never been in charge of a topic for the papers since my first day working there, and was instead assigned the smaller miscellaneous stories, which were dubbed 'paper-fillers'.

Ellison was disinclined to hand the column over to me, considering me to still be too green at my job despite the years I've clocked in at the New York Bulletin and had more than three critically applauded online features under my belt. He was a hypercritical man and an equally hard man to please. I've never quite forgiven him for the one time I was forced to do write-ups about the playgrounds in New York just to appease the grouchy housewife readers who had filed complains that none of the articles were beneficial to their children's wellbeing.

I was ready to fight tooth and nail (and my graphite sketching pencils) for the column with Ellison, but thankfully, Ben, my mentor, had stepped in and convinced him to give me the chance, seeing as how nobody had wanted to do it. (He might have mentioned my capabilities here and there, but hey, trying to be modest here.)

So, the Man in the Mask, the new vigilante of Clinton and Midtown West, became my big break in journalism.

Having settled in for the night (which pretty much was just stripping myself of my bra, pants and heels), I sat myself down with my freshly charged laptop, a cup of well-steeped Earl Grey, a bowl of leftover lasagna and the notes I've compiled, ready to tackle the recent sighting of the vigilante. Words and phrases and thoughts hung at the tip of my tongue, and yet, my fingers hovered still over the smooth keys, not unlike when I was told to write a story without having any research done.

(It was the worst article I've ever written, by the way, but it served as a constant reminder of how a thorough research and asking the right questions were vital to a good story.)

Fifteen minutes, one polished bowl of lasagna and a half mug of tea later, I've only gotten as far as having the heading, my name and the first sentence typed out. Unsurprisingly, I was stumped. My eyes drifted over to the time flashing on the corner of my screen, taking note that it was getting close to half past ten.

I knew for a fact that I wasn't going to be able to continue without my journal. All my information about the ongoing sightings were in it and with just the facts I've obtained from the women, there was no way I was even going to be able to get started on the second paragraph, not to mention piece together a concise report.

With a ragged sigh of annoyance, I pulled on my discarded pair of pants again and reached for my old navy coat, since it had started pouring not long after I reached home. I made quick work of grabbing my keys and phone from my mother's old crystalline dish and tucked my can of pepper spray and a lighter into my coat pocket before I was out the door.

It was at this moment when my neighbour, Mrs. Olsen, stepped out of the elevator, her quilted bag hanging from one arm and a dripping umbrella held in the other. I smiled, watching her hobble down the hallway in an adorable manner as her beaded slippers clapped along the floor. She had lived in the apartment ever since the passing of Mr. Olsen a little over five years ago. Mrs. Olsen was a portly lady, who tended to be a little absent-minded at times, but she was incredibly sweet and kind and I liked her, despite the constant whiff of peppermint oil lingering around her form.

"Good evening, Mrs. Olsen."

"Oh! Hello, dear, didn't see you there," She laughed, granting me a creased smile as she dug her hands into her bag. "Just reached home?"

"Ah, no, I'm about to head out actually," I explained, locking my door behind me before reaching over to take her keys from her. Her hands tended to get shaky and they often proved to be a problem at opening doors.

"This late? Off to a party then? Or whatever you youngsters do these days."

"It's too early for parties, Mrs. Olsen," I laughed, helping her through the door and flicking the light switch on. A warm yellow light flooded her living room and a sharp kick of menthol assaulted my nose. "I'm going back to the office for some things I left behind."

"Oh yes, you're working at the Bulletin now," See what I said about the forgetfulness? I've been working there for almost three years and Mrs. Olsen always thought I had just clinched the job whenever I brought it up. "How has it been? My friend, Ben, is working there too. Good man, he is. An upstanding and honest journalist."

"He is a good man," I agreed and proceeded to help switch the heater on for her. It was still pouring and the chill of winter had only just left New York, so the temperatures were still a little on the colder side. "It's been great, Mrs. Olsen. I've just been given a column to myself."

"That's wonderful news, Renée," Mrs. Olsen chirped as she moved to her kitchen and the sound of running water could be heard. "David always said you were going to be a fantastic journalist one day, and he was right!" The proud tone marking her words made me smile involuntarily. "Would you like a cup of tea, dear?"

"Oh, no it's okay," I said, running a cursory glance over her home and taking stock of things which she would probably need help with. "I've got to go. It's getting late and I've got an article due tomorrow."

"Yes, yes, you best run along now, it's dangerous for a young lady to be out alone at this time of the night," She cautioned and hobbled her way over to me with a jar of cookies which I rushed to take from her. "Pass these cookies to Ben, will you? Tell the old grunt to give me a call when he's free. I want to know he's been taking care of you for me."

I chuckled and bent to press a quick kiss on her weathered cheek, reminding her to give me a call if she needed help with anything before heading for the door and shutting it securely behind me.

The drive to the agency was faster than normal, due to the lack of traffic, and I managed to reach well within ten minutes, as compared to the usual twenty. As expected, the area was silent save for the pitter-pattering of the rain that didn't look as if it was letting up anytime soon. The only light source came from the lobby of the Bulletin's foyer, which I presumed the security guard was, leaving the rest of the street shrouded in darkness.

I pulled the hood of my coat up and wrapped the jar of cookies under it to protect it from the deluge before opening the door and venturing out into the cold. The rain hadn't let up from when it had first started falling. Instead, it seemed to have only gotten heavier as the precipitation pelted against my skin, drenching my coat in a matter of seconds and engulfing me in a frigid chill.

I had just gotten up the steps leading to the building when a solid thud and a loud moan sliced through the din of the downpour. Startled, I whipped around, my hand going for the pocket that held the can of pepper spray instantly as I searched the premises.

A movement on the steps caught my eyes, and through the dim lighting offered by the street lamps, I realized it to be a man, bounded together by his hands and feet, and lying prone on the steps. He was seemingly unconscious (or dead) from the lack of motion and as I took a step closer to the body, my eyes drifted over to the form standing over the comatose man.

There was a gasp and the piercing sound of shattering glass, both of which, I realized later, came from me.

Mrs. Olsen's cookies spilled over the floor around my feet. But I was too far gone in stupefaction to feel the remorse of wasting her good efforts.

All I could focus on was the Man in the Mask, and how he was staring straight at me.

Hahahahahaa hahaha haha ha ah -

Sorry not sorry :|

I am on a Marvel craze right now and I ain't stoppin'

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