What if. What if Batman had a daughter. What if – a long, long time ago – even he was just a kid. A kid filled with hormones and a lot of mistakes to make. What if one of those was made on a dark night, in a bar just out of the city. What if a young Bruce Wayne had a bit to drink – a bit too much – on a dark night. What if he had met a girl. No, not a girl, a woman. No matter how young, a woman she surely was. Now, what if you mix up hormones, alcohol and a pretty young woman all together. We all know where that leads to. A smile in the right direction and the inevitable is set in motion. A beer, a smile, a touch, a kiss, a fuck. Nothing more. But what if that wasn't true to everyone. What if master Wayne kept on walking towards his destiny, while leaving behind a piece of him. Just one little piece, that the woman held on to. What if I told you that this little piece of a fuck, was me.
My name, no one bothered to tell me what it was. My number, however, was CW-16002. I know, it sounds weird. But to understand, I have to tell you about my mother first. I've never met her. Everything I know now, I've learned from the files. Born in a small town, moved to the big city a few years later. No high school diploma, 5 foot 6, blood type A+, an organ donor. I guess that makes her a good person, right? She was a woman way too soon for her own good. Getting pregnant certainly didn't do her well. Her parents disowned her, leaving their daughter completely alone. She had to drop her studies, had to work, had to find a roof for her head. I guess jobs were scarce for young high school dropouts with no experience, because she was drowning in debts. This, and having to eat for two, is probably what pushed her to participate in a paid study reserved to pregnant woman.
A small lab, in a sub-division of Cadmus, hosted a research program. They were looking for any woman, bearing a child, willing to submit to some tests. In exchange of this service food, money and a lodgement would be provided. How could my mother ever refuse? It could fix all her problems, at least for a few seconds. How could she know better than to trust these scientists? But I could easily argue that the offer didn't weight out the consequences.
What my mother – and dozens of others – didn't know, was that they weren't simply making tests. They were searching for the best genetic background possible. They wanted the fastest, the fittest and the strongest babies. Only the best kids could make the best weapons. Who could argue against that logic? All of them – all of us – all these lives reduced to a number in a test tube. I bet my mother didn't want to give me away. I bet she would have tried to fight it. To fight for me. I bet I could have been happy. But I never was a lucky bet.
She died two months before my "birth". I was incubated; put in a pod to simulate life. My genes were altered. "Bettered" as they would say. According to their files, I had an almost perfect DNA – mostly coming from my father. Only one little problem; I was blind at birth.
Well, I say birth, but I came out of the pod at the age of four. For four years, the scientists tried everything to compensate for my handicap. A serum based on Martian blood, which, at the time, was believed to bear healing properties. Bat DNA to enhance the other senses. They even tried robotic eyes, and – fortunately – failed. Tests on top of tests, on top of tests; leaving my body with markings worth a lifetime.
I guess at some point it worked because I remember flashes of sight. A burning brightness, a dark shade (that later experience taught me was blood), a few tall men and a lot of pain. A whole lot of pain. These were my first real memories. Memories of experiments, of mutations, of what turned my body into a deformity – and gave me shape shifting abilities. I had to learn to see, to hear the world and its changes. To hear movement before it even happens. They called it echo location. I called it survival. Isn't it perfect to obtain a little soldier who's forced to listen. Everything else – how to talk, walk, kill – was implanted. I was a literal born killer.
Experimentation, fighting and pain were my whole life for five more years. But I wasn't alone. I guess that could be a good thing. I never saw it that way. Other kids made it through the hazing program. I particularly liked BT-25018. He had a soft voice, which always seemed out of place. We were different, forced to fight one another, even kill the too weak, but we were all in this. We were all living the same pain. We were all lonely in silence. I still remember the hours I spent trying to hear nothing; trying to forget existence itself. To look away. How childish I was to think that silence is empty.
But then, it all changed. I changed. And I forced my world to change along with me.
Sure, I was never an easy-going type. Rebelling whenever I had the occasion, injuring more doctors and nurses then there are bones in the hand, getting myself thrown in solitary for laughing with BT-25018. Solitary became my routine. That's where it started, with me locked in a box, all alone, and with them unaware of my awareness. It's where I heard it all, all their repugnance for us, their little toy soldiers. And then I heard the two words who would change my life's course.
"The physical capacities of subject CW-16002 is a complete success. However, her compliance to orders and her relationship towards power are problems. Her personality takes too much space. It's a liability we can't afford to take."
"You may be right, but we are running out of time. We must advance to the second phase. Prep the three test subjects for movement. We'll plant the chip and erase their memories on the way."
"And the others?"
"Kill them."
"Kill them." Two words spoken out empty of any emotion or hesitation. Blank. As if there was no meaning to it. As if "them" wasn't someone, as if "kill" was the most natural act. "Kill them." Those two little words spun around in my head. They echoed, louder and louder. They filled out the darkness. "Kill them." This darkness that was my life. I could see them destroying the memories of "playtime". I could hear the soft heartbeats that filled the silences of my days. BT-25018' s laugh filled my ears. «Kill them.» I wanted to run, but I didn't move. I wanted to tell him, warn them, but I stayed still, alone in my ice box. «Kill them.» It's all I could hear, it's all I could see. They were all gone and there I stood alone, motionless, like the robot I was meant to be. «KILL them.». The words were screaming, and I was letting them. «KILL THEM.» What was it all for? Why did we have to go through all this? So we could die and be forgotten? «KILL THEM» What could I do? «KILL THEM» I closed my eyes. I was alone «KILL THEM» I ca- «KILL THEM» «KILL THEM» «KILL THEM»
Silence. A single sound at the door. I opened my eyes and I could see clearly for the first time. I'll kill them. I'll kill them all. The doors opened and I darted towards them with all my strength. The nurse fell to the ground, surprised. I jumped on him and grabbed his throat with the energy of the desperate. I held on to it, as if it were the only key to the locked gate keeping me in my darkness. And then I pulled; I pulled until I could feel his life spilling out and hear his voice quiet forever. There were screams all around me. A scientist called security. They all seemed rushed as they were running away from my rage. All this animation around me, but my ideas were completely focused on the silence consuming his body. It made me laugh. They were afraid, and they were right to be. I jumped on my feet, guiding myself with their voices. I bolted towards the next screamer. I still remember her plead. But it didn't last long. A simple crack and she dropped to the floor. "Somebody do something! Stop her!" That voice. It haunted my nightmares. It was him. That man who controlled my life; up until his last order. "Kill them." His words echoed one last time as my teeth sank into his neck. I was going for the main artery. As I tasted the iron in his blood, I knew I was right on target. From there on, it all became a blur. My mind got lost in the screaming, and the fighting, and the blood. A buzzing covered my vision. Nothing made sense, everything was lost in the overbearing power of my wrath.
An hour passed, and here I am. Standing in the middle of a now silent room. The floor has lost its density, giving away to a pool of red rage. The air around me feels heavy and stiff. It burns my inside, filling my lungs with the familiar taste of blood each time I breathe it in. My foot moves a little, causing a ripple. Through it, I can see the pile of corpses I left in my path. But something troubles me. Smaller bodies – about my size – across the room. Smaller bodies that shouldn't be. Those corpses who I used to force myself to ignore, who were mere blanks while alive, only numbers in a long list of victims. Faceless. I always thought I had it easier, not being forced to see who else was stuck like me. To see my own reflection in their eyes. These faceless ghost walking by me. I don't want to see them anymore. I stand as still as one can possibly be. The darkness comes back, comforting in the ignorance it brings. But some images can never go away. Blindness is not the same as bliss. I breathe in. I feel the rage invading every part of me. Breathe out. Let it go, as if it could ever be just a memory. Breathe in. Take in all the gory details. Breathe out. Pretend you weren't too late. Breathe in. Breathe-
*clack*
A sound of metal and power; a danger. I whip around so fast I can feel the world spin. My muscles tense up, my blood pulses through my head, throbbing in beat. I didn't recognize the sound, but my instinct were screaming at me to run. I'm tired of listening. A few seconds go by, and nothing. But I wasn't gonna let myself be fooled again. I stand at the ready, and I wait. The silence is agony, but I wait through it. Finally, a couple of footsteps resonate. Heavy, sure footsteps, slowly revealing a man. A man walking towards me. As he comes closer, I discover more and more how tall he really is. He's big, but not in the same way the nurses were. He seems – I can't find the word. The sound of his heart is steady, making the throbbing of mine look like a scarred child. I hate it. I can hear his muscles rolling, but they're relaxed. He doesn't feel ready for combat. Yet, I have the unnerving impression that I wouldn't even have a chance in that fight. He's getting close. Too close. I trip back a little, my reflexes gaining a bit over me. He stops. This could be my shot. I have to get out. Where's the door? We both stand in that moment of tension, my heartbeat is frantic. I breathe in. This is it.
I quickly step forward, the blood splashing at my feet. I could dive back in that pool, let myself loose it. I could scare him, force him out of the way – out of my way. I prepare my fist, I'm ready to dive. He doesn't move. He's like a wall, standing alone in this spinning mess of a world. But I'm not backing away, not anymore. I can't afford it. The corpses deserve it, to see me fight until the very end. I can do it. I've broken walls before, but this one I was not ready for. As my knuckles are about to break a rib or two, he stops my movement. I can feel the warmth of his hand over mine. It's able to envelop my whole fist. It would be comforting if I knew that feeling. I just stand there, baffled. I hate this feeling. His other arm slowly lifts, but not towards me. He keeps it there, open for everyone to see. And I do mean everyone. Behind him, covering the only way out, is about ten bodies holding swords at the ready. How could I be so foolish? How could I ever think to be free? I'm such an idiot. For the first time in my life, my legs are shaking. His hand releases its grip a little. I pull away as fast as I can. My heart is going so fast, I can barely hear his first words to me.
"Hey, relax. I'm not gonna hurt you, kid."
His voice envelops me. It's the kind of voice that just calms you, make you want to feel safe. But still holds a note of danger. Like a razor blade hidden in a tasty apple. I want to listen, forget everything, "relax". But I'm stubborn like that. I pretend to look him directly in the eyes, challenging him. He looks around a bit.
"Did you do that?" he laughs "Impressive..."
Is he joking!? Is this all just a game? Well I never asked to play. I spit a little blood on the ground. It mixes well with the current pool.
"There's a strength in you, I can see it. But you know, you're gonna get yourself killed if you can't control your emotions." He pauses. He's probably thinking of that punch. It must have felt so insignificant. "This world isn't fair kid. But I like you. I'm willing to give you a shot. With the right training, you could be the righteous sword putting an end to the cancer these corpses around us brought in their life. A force against the root of evil. You know, the dead ain't never hurt no one."
He said that last phrase as a joke. I heard it as a truth. Maybe he was right. Maybe he could teach me. Teach me to be calm like him. Teach me to be a threat when I simply walk. Teach me how to get out of my own head. Because, it really sucks in there.
"Tell me kid, what's your name?"
I've lost all my defenses. I'm lost in his voice. My name? No one ever asked me that before. No one ever cared enough to give me one. I open my mouth, ready to spill my number like I was taught. No. I'm not a number, not anymore more. This is my shot. To try and find what I am.
What am I? I'm not a number. Not anymore, that's for sure. But I'm not really a person… I'm merely a
"Shadow… My name's Shadow."