Rhone stepped into the parking garage of the hotel she had been staying at. She had checked out and didn't exactly know what she was going to do now. She thought about the strange man she had met last night in the bar parking lot -- Bishop. She didn't know what his deal was – he was probably just a crackpot.
She had considered going home. You can always just come back next month, she thought to herself.
She shifted the duffle bag of clothing she was carrying to her other shoulder as she walked. She approached her car – there was something leaning on the passenger side. It was a man, a familiar one. She shifted her duffle bag again from discomfort, "I never thought I would see you again."
"We don't let people like you slip away," he said in his light accent.
"People like me? You mean dense ones that fall for bad acting?" she said referring to when the man had feigned a heart attack.
"No," he said with a faint smile, "And I thought it was quite good." His accent was more prevalent on that last sentence.
"Where are you from?" she asked leaning on the roof of her car.
"Wherever suits me," he said.
"So, like Detroit?" she said with a raised eyebrow.
He laughed lightly, "Something like that. Did you – consider my offer?"
"The offer to save me from my mundane little life – the offer that you never elaborated on? Oh, yeah, sign me up right now," she opened her door and put the duffle bag inside. Then she got in her car, shut the door, and started the engine. The man, Bishop, had stepped back from the car and was standing about three feet from it.
Rhone sat for a moment with the engine running. She sat in the car and in ten seconds had analyzed her entire life. Where was she going? What was she going back to?
The man in the black trench coat watched the window of the car roll down. "Well, where are we going?" he heard the young girl's exasperated voice coming from the driver's seat.
Bishop smiled. He opened the car door and slid beside her.
She pulled out of the parking space. After a moment she asked, "Which way?"
"Take a right out of this lot," he said. "Where did you get this car?" he asked, "The Micro Machines factory?" He adjusted his seat. "Take a left," he instructed.
She followed his instructions as he gave them. "What is this all about anyway?" she asked.
"Have you ever felt that your life was – wrong?" he asked, seemingly off the subject.
"Like you didn't belong in it, like there was something more?" she asked in reply. Her voice was absent and stoic.
He turned to look at her with slightly wide eyes. In his case, they were no longer squinted, "That – is exactly what I mean." He had expected some smart-ass remark or for her to get defensive, that was usually the reply he got.
She briefly took her eyes off the road in front of her, "Everyday."
"Left," he said. "You are special, you know," he added. She shot him a sideways glance. "I can see it – feel it. I have been looking for you," he said more to himself than to her.
She knew he couldn't mean her specifically, "Looking for me?"
"Someone that has the power to change fate, the outcome of destiny," he clarified.
"You just got a little too philosophical," she quipped.
"I want you to be a part of my team," he said flatly. He had never decided so quickly before.
"Despite the fact that you have filled me in on everything else," she said sarcastically, "You have failed to mention what exactly you do."
"There is a select group of people that saves the world quite frequently, fight entire wars alone, live a life above the law in the name of national security – the safety of the masses," he began.
"Like a vigilantes?" she asked.
"No, these people have the highest level of government sponsorship. Except for the Feds would never admit to it," he continued.
"You are one of these people," she concluded.
"I'm their EX-O – their leader," he explained.
"EX-O? You're military," she observed.
"We don't follow their rules or even their hierarchy. There's an elected EX-O, a chosen backup to the EX-O – incase the EX-O dies suddenly or is temporarily unable to fulfill his duties. Everyone else is equal. However, just being one of us gives you more authority than anyone in any of the other branches of the military," he paused.
"So right now, the highest ranking person in The United States Military is sitting in my Honda?" she observed.
"Basically," he answered.
"You do realize that you are offering me no real proof for me to believe you?" she asked.
"I'm taking you to proof," he said, "Get on the express way."
She complied. "How do you do all those things?" she asked softly.
"What things?"
"Heroic things, saving the world," she clarified.
"Are you interested?" he prodded, he liked the way she put it – "heroic" things. She didn't answer. "We – watch things," he began simply, "Look for suspicious behaviors, shipments, flagged words in communications, anything really. After initial training, each man trains at his own pace; some focus more on the observations, others on combat, others on ballistics, others on piloting, or shooting, survival tactics, anything someone like us could possibly need. There is so much to know and practice…" his voice was absent as he looked out the window.
"Where exactly are we going?" she wanted some kind of direction.
"To a military installation, just outside of the city," he said.
"There is no military base in Metropolis," she said with a smile.
He looked at her with a raised eyebrow, "I had forgotten what it was like talking to the general public." He chuckled.
She didn't like the implication that she was just one of the masses. She stifled a disrespectful remark, "So what do you do with all of this observational knowledge and training?"
"Everything. We eliminate threats to national security…" he began.
"Eliminate like a hit man?" she interrupted.
"Does that bother you? Taking the life of another human being?" he genuinely wanted to know the answer, it was quite important.
"No," she didn't elaborate. He was surprised by her lack of pause. She noticed that he was looking at her, "The good of the many outweighs the good of the few." All she could think about was that bastard that shot Marie and how he never saw justice for what he did. By taking his own life, Rhone felt as though he had cheated.
He really wanted this one, not only for the team, but also for – other reasons. He had a – feeling. He realized his silence, "We do anything the government really wants us to. Frequently, we act on our own on behalf of public safety and are – compensated later."
"Compensated?" she wanted to know more about that.
"Not only do we enjoy an unlimited budget for what we need to fulfill our duties and to prepare ourselves, but we receive payment," he paused, "It is quite – ample."
"What does the government ask you to do?"
"Many times we are – a temporary gift to a foreign country to ensure good faith or make a new ally or for any number of reasons. Sabotaging rogue factions against the government of a country, temporarily working security protecting important foreign figures, dissolving hostage situations, we do anything that I deem acceptable," he took a breath.
"You get to pick your missions?" she thought that sounded odd.
"When you do the government so many favors, you get to pick what they are. Another reason why we are compensated so – handsomely," he answered.
"Do you ever do work – domestically?" she wondered since he had only mentioned some of the things they do in other countries.
"I told you, we do everything. We are – the Duct Tape of the military," he laughed lightly. "I must admit; I like the jobs that we aren't asked to do the best. It is almost more rewarding and they tend to be more dire," he was speaking as much to himself as he was to her. "Get off here," he pointed.
"We're leaving the city," she told him as if he didn't know.
"I've lived where we are going for over 25 years, I know how to get there," he assured her.
"You have been doing this – mercenary work for over 25 years?" she asked, surprised.
He sat silently for a few seconds, "I have been doing this for 30 years. I have been EX-O for 25."