The Purple Man
Daredevil and related characters belong to Marvel Comics.
Other Marvel Re-Imagined titles can be found here.
Rating: T (just covering my bases)
The walls, or so Matt had been told, were gleaming white and in the centre was ‘the purple man’ Urich would be talking to. He felt relieved to have an excuse to be alone. It was hard enough to think with Foggy in the room and memories resurfacing of Foggy being dangled before him like a chain, stringing him up and preventing him from slugging Owlsley’s henchman. Daredevil hadn’t gone too well and yet there’d been that thrill as he wore the costume, took the folder and had Owlsley right where he wanted. Why had he felt that? It was the question Matt knew he couldn’t answer with that memory taunting him. People were always hurt, always in the way because if the good guy has friends then he’s hamstrung.
“Don’t let him take off his face,” the guard had warned them as they walked in. “He takes off that face; you don’t know who you are anymore.”
“I’m blind,” Matt had replied. Urich had laughed before reassuring the guard, who seemed to be called Everett, that the purple man’s face would stay where it was. There was definitely something odd about this man sitting in the middle of the room. It was something that felt as cold as the room. Neither man had spoken for some time. It was the perfect place to just think long and hard, which was probably why there were rooms like that one. Forced the criminals to think, forced the interrogator to think; it forced people to look deeper than the physical and the obvious and really analyse every little detail of everything. The more that Matt thought about it, the more it seemed it wasn’t for the criminals that it was made like that. It was made for the interrogator.
“Mr Urich, do you know why you’ve come to see me?” the man said, his voice rough and yet with a dash of the affable. Things were beginning to move along.
“It was curiosity, Mr Killgrave,” Urich replied, probably tapping away on his iPad as he spoke. The silence of the typing was unnerving to Matt. There was just no reference point.
Killgrave laughed, possibly at his own private joke. That was a name Matt thought couldn’t possibly be real. ‘Killgrave’ sounded like the sort of name the man had picked up and used for himself, some kind of revolutionary pseudonym so as to re-invent himself and hide from the world. As Killgrave laughed, however, Matt felt his hair beginning to stand on end. This wasn’t someone who was arrested; far from it. This was a man who wanted to be in that room, alone with Urich and himself.
“If you’re so curious Mr Urich,” Killgrave said with joviality, “take this mask off me. You’re a journalist; surely you want to know what’s hiding under here for yourself?”
Urich was quiet. Matt wondered what he would see if he could see, if he could see Urich contemplating Killgrave’s request or if he was smiling and shaking his head. Sometimes the silence was reassuring, a deep nothingness where Matt could contemplate the deep questions such as the why. This silence was mind-numbing. “Urich, if anything happens I could easily punch Killgrave out.”
Matt could hear Urich standing up, sliding his chair along the tiled floor until it was underneath the table, and walking until he was standing behind Killgrave. Matt clenched his fists. He could hear the plastic mask being torn from Killgrave’s face, the skin breathing as it touched even the sterile air of the room. Stepping forward, he cracked his knuckles. If anything happened, he’d be there to knock Killgrave out could. Giving Urich reassurance was something Matt knew he probably needed. The mask was thrown to the floor. Matt could hear Urich started to speak, his voice still barely more than a mumble.
To Be Continued.