The late afternoon light lingered as the never ending maze of concrete and metal turned to a singular silhouette on the horizon. Telephone poles marked the sidewalks and cars that hadn't worked in years rusted in their place along the curb. The city, at least this part of the city, was falling asleep. The only sound other then cars passing by in the neighborhood was the fluttering of wings in a panicked way. There was a bird, a hawk, flying very close to the wall of an old red brick building. A trail of feathers hung in the air, gently wafting to the ground. With a shrill screech, the hawk flapped its one working wing, trying desperately to compensate for the limp wing that clung to his side. Suddenly losing the strength, it struck the wall and fell to the ground, flinching every couple seconds and trying to roll over, off its broken wing.
A man, clad in red and black with a grey mask jumped down from the rooftop, landing gracefully on the ground. He glanced over and saw the dying bird at his feet. Broken glass crunched beneath his feet as he bent down to examine it. "Poor guy." he muttered to himself, gently lifting the broken wing with his finger and seeing a spot of blood and a hole shot through the wing, breaking the bone. "Some little punk thought he was cool, shooting you with a BB gun, huh? Don't worry, pal. You'll be alright." Using a rag from his pocket and some loose padding from a thrown out couch, Longshot made a temporary cocoon for the bird to keep him safe. As he secured the hawk, a sound struck his ear and he glanced around the corner. He saw a mass of people, men and women in suits, carrying microphones and cameramen trailing behind. There were news vans parked down the street. "He's over here!" one of them shouted, "This way!" said another. Where they after him? How? How could they have found him? He was about to run when one of the women called out his name, and when he glanced over his shoulder, they were already surrounding him, shoving their microphones toward him, flashes going off in all directions. It was unsettling, to say the least. "Longshot! Chanel 4 Boston! Is it true that you were present during the battle with Warsman in Lebanon, Kansas?" asked a woman. Longshot shielded his eyes from the lights and replied, "Uuh... yes." Suddenly, there were questions coming left and right, "Why don't you have superpowers?" "Are you worried about the influence of vigilantism on children?" "Is it true that Warner Brothers is producing a saturday morning cartoon?" He tried to get a word out and the word was "GO AWAY." "Longshot!" shouted another reporter, a guy with greasy hair and a snazzy red suit, "CNN! Do you have anything to say about the rumors that you've assembled a team of other costumed crimefighters and are attempting to take the law into your own hands?" This was a question he was ready to answer. He leaned in close to the reporters face and said, with a frighteningly stern voice, "Yes. It's true. And we have a message to everyone watching this who thinks they're above the law, who thinks it's okay to steal or rape or kill. You are not safe. You will never be safe. We will not stop until we find you. Until justice finds you. Consider this your final warning. Stop now or we will come for you. Is that the answer you wanted?" A bit frightened, the reporter nodded. "Then let me get back to work." With that, Longshot turned from the horde of reporters, fired a grapple up to the roof and vanished. The reporters did their individual sign offs and he was long gone.
FOX News Broadcast: Monday, January 4th, 2:00 PM
Hi there, thanks for joining us. Well, this clip originally aired on CNN, but every channel has been playing it non-stop and it's all over the internet. This clip of the vigilante long labeled by the tabloids as "Longshot", it sounds Russian, I think he's Russian, he's Russian, stepped out of the shadows and made a public decree to criminals everywhere. Now, what does he mean by "above the law"? I mean, if I were to go out and take the law into my own hands, wouldn't that mean I was putting myself above the law? And what is he gonna do, kill them? Mr. Parks, your thoughts?
Well, this man has proven, time and time again, that he is not a killer. If half the police force in the U.S. is corrupt, and you need a masked crime fighter to compensate, I think this is the kind America can trust. And there are countless metahumans, super powered individuals, who would otherwise become lost, they would take lives, they might turn to crime. They need mentors like this. They need people of their own kind to aspire to, like the Champions of Peace and Omega Justice. I mean, the numbers keep growing every day, these kids need someone to guide them. This is not a-a black and white w-
I didn't ask for your opinion.
Y-Yes you d-
I DID NOT ASK FOR YOUR OPINiON! Now either you can support the idea that metahumans should be locked up and masked nuts like Longsho-
I will not! I will-
YOU CAN SUPPORT THE POLICY OF YOUR COUNTRY OR SHUT UP!
I can't believe this! I believe that Longshot is doing a-a service to the world, and your first instinct is to-
Cut his mic. We'll be right back. FOX News, Fair and Balanced.
COD Headquarters, Midnight
Longshot was sealed up in his room and sat at his desk, finishing the splint on the hawk's wing, the hole stitched up and the bone reset. "Good as new." he remarked, petting the bird's head gently and setting it down in a shoe box filled with cotton. "Get some rest, pal." he whispered, getting up from his desk and easing the door to his room open. He walked out across the hardwood floor and stood in the pale moonlight shining through the whitewashed windows. There was much on his mind now. He'd revealed the team, the media and the government were raving like mad in response, most of it negative. He'd most likely given them a whole new batch of ammunition against the hero community. But that was the least troubling thing on his mind. How did those news vans know where he would be and at what time? Who tipped them off? He slowly exhaled and turned, walking back into his room. Sleep would do him well. He lay down on his cot and drifted off to sleep, not knowing that in a workshop on the other side of town, a pair of hands were fast at work grinding down pieces of metal. The craftsmen examined his work, his face cloaked in shadow. He made not a sound, but it was apparent that he was pleased with his handiwork, a perfect replica of one of Longshot's arrows. He stood up from his stool and walked over to a work bench, sliding the arrow in the the rest of the quiver, which was at the end of a long row of weapons including a set of blades, a pistol, escrima sticks and an iron ball and chain, to name a few. Every last weapon was a signature weapon from a member of the C.O.D. The craftsmen stood over the work bench and remarked at his full myriad of weapons. At long last, he was ready.
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