Who wants to see Forgetful? This is the next multi-chaptered story that I'm most excited about. And while I don't have all the details worked out yet (for the plot, number of chapters, etc.), I know basically where I want it to go. I feel like I know what I'm doing enough to post the first chapter. So . . . here you go!

Originally I wasn't really going to say who the main character was. But there's not a really a twist. You know her, I love her, and I'm not going to shock you with "It's been so-and-so all along!" (Though there will be a few twists, granted.) So check the character list again if you missed it. It will also become obvious later.

Not quite sure when this story takes place. I believe it would be sometime after "Avalanche" and before "No Going Back." So the latter half of season two. Some parts may be slightly AU. Bear with me here; I'm trying to stick to canon as much as I can, but some story details may veer from it slightly.

Rated T for injuries and some intense scenes later on. Could possibly slip by with a K plus rating, but I didn't want to risk it.

This is weird, and I personally think it's fun. I don't own Lab Rats, Disney does. I do, however, own my OCs. Please enjoy. :)

* * * Chapter 1 * * *

"Miss? Miss?" A hand shook my shoulder. My lips almost parted to utter the words, "Five more minutes!" but I opted for a groan instead. This was the best nap I had had in years. Whoever was trying to wake me up would get it when I sat up. "Miss, I need you to wake up, please."

Okay, now he sounded desperate. Something was going on here. I cracked open my eyes and blinked a few times to clear my vision. Crouching above me was a man in a blue uniform, staring down with concern in his eyes. He smiled lightly as I looked up at him.

"Shh, it's going to be okay," he murmured. "Hey, Charlie, she's awake."

"She's awake?" Another man wearing the same uniform ran up. My brain had already categorized them as police officers. From previous experience I knew that they were to be trusted.

"It's going to be okay," the first officer repeated. "Can you tell me how many fingers I'm holding up?"

What kind of childish game is this? You have three fingers in the air, dummy. What does this prove?

However, I knew exactly what it proved. I also knew that there might be consequences if I answered that question correctly. Before I said anything, I considered my options.

First, I could answer incorrectly; say two or four or even one. That would give them proper concern, and it would definitely provide me with top-notch care. On the other hand, it might concern them too much. If and when I was taken to a hospital, it would result in more tests that I simply could not handle. I would also have to keep up the charade, answering incorrectly whenever it was needed most. I currently did not feel up to that task.

Second, I could play dumb. I could just remain silent. It would be easy. It would also make whatever came next easier. I wouldn't have to answer anything. They would assume that I was deaf or mute or just in shock from . . . whatever had happened to me. Chances are they wouldn't put too much pressure on me (I was dealing with professionals, after all) but there was sure to some. Pressure was normally something I could handle very well, but, again, in my current condition I didn't know how long I could keep it up. Besides, they may turn out to be helpful, in which case I might accidentally open my mouth because I like them so much.

The third option seemed like my best choice: I would answer correctly. It wouldn't give too much away, and I wouldn't be taking the risk of excessive medical examinations down the road. I could stutter and stammer, though, and seem to struggle with it. Appear weak, but not broken. That was the key.

Now, all those sentences that might have taken you several seconds to read took my brain approximately 0.91 seconds to process. My father called me hyperactive. My brothers called me annoying. I called myself analytical. Most people who met me wouldn't call me that (I didn't make it obvious), but I had many, many secrets . . . most of which had to kept from the hard-working men positioned above me.

"Th-Three," I said weakly, tiredly. I didn't lift my head from the pavement. I didn't move any muscles. I just said the word in way that made me look helpless, but still responsive.

"Good," the officer said gently. "Can you tell us your name?"

Oh dear, another tough question. Again, there were so many options. My brain ran through it faster than you could say, "I know who I am," but I'll slow it down for you.

Plan A was to tell them my name. That plan was disregarded as soon as it came into my mind. There were a plethora of reasons, but first and foremost was the fact that I needed to stay safe. There were people after me; I couldn't risk being on the news and having them see my name. After all, it's not every day a teenage girl is found on the side of the road.

Plan B was to tell them a fake name. That could work, I suppose. Give them an alias; a cover for them to believe. However, that would be another thing for me to keep up. If I remember my name, chances are I would remember a lot of other things, like my family. I couldn't tell them about my family. I didn't even know where my family was. They would search for someone with my fake name. I couldn't risk that.

Plan C was the one I settled on. That plan was what I liked to call "Plan Amnesia." It was simple: I didn't know who I was. I had no idea how I wound up on the side of the road (which wasn't far from the truth) or where I came from and who my family was (which was further from the truth).

Less than three seconds had passed before I settled on Plan Amnesia and gave my answers to the officers. "I-I don't know." I let my voice crack a little, making me sound sad, pathetic, and scared. Inside I stayed alert, ready to work through any more questions the officers asked me.

"Do you know how you wound up here?" the officer named Charlie asked.

"No," I said meekly.

"Do you know who your family is?" the other officer asked.

"No!" I let my voice rise in pitch, making me sound desperate.

"Don't push her, Stewart," Charlie said. "It's okay, sweetheart. There's an ambulance on its way. You'll be fine, okay?"

I nodded numbly. Then I pulled out the best acting skills I had and rolled my head backward, my eyes closing slightly. Just as I had anticipated, the officers grabbed me and shook me gently.

"Stay with us, okay?"

I groaned softly and cracked open my eyes. It took all my strength not to laugh. Of course, that would've been disrespectful. I really appreciated what these guys were doing for me. I had been raised with a sense of respect for police officers. They were amazing people, risking their lives every day to serve those in need. They were heroes in their own right.

When I leaned my head back, I became acutely aware that something was off. Beneath my head was a sticky substance that caught in my hair. I prayed that it was oil, but as my senses fully returned, I knew the truth. The side of my head stung like a thousand wasps and I felt weak. My head was bleeding. More accurately, my left cheek was bleeding and red liquid was dripping onto the pavement. I could feel the painful line that ran from just above my eyebrow all the way to my chin. Oh, please don't let it be a concussion! I thought desperately. At least the head injury would make my amnesia story more believable.

I mentally scanned myself for other injuries, working my way down my body. My whole head was aching from the injury, but I don't think it was concussion-worthy aching, for which I was grateful. My chest was fine, thank goodness. Any injuries there had a possibility of going from merely dangerous to downright deadly. My neck seemed okay, which, like my chest, was essential for survival. My arms didn't hurt and neither did my abdomen. As I worked my way down to my legs, however, I discovered a problem.

My right leg was not in a natural position. I could tell that without even looking at it. It was bent a direction it should not go and the swell of pain caused the breath to hitch in my chest. My leg, I thought forlornly, why oh why did it have to be my leg, of all things!

Flashing lights came around the bend and I blinked and groaned. There was no acting this time. The lights really did give me a headache. I squeezed my eyes shut and put a hand to my head.

"It's okay," Officer Stewart assured me. Soon I was being lifted onto a stretcher and taken into the ambulance. Once we were inside and away from the lights, I looked around.

There was medical equipment lying all around me, but none of it seemed incredibly sophisticated. In fact, some of it looked quite old. I took a deep breath, wondering how long it would be until I had to use my new power. As long as they didn't use any kind of X-ray equipment, I should—hopefully—be good.

As the ambulance drove away, the paramedics hovered around me, "stabilizing" me and checking me over. I groaned and growled at the right times. They couldn't be allowed to find out what made me "special," as my dad called it. They had to remain blissfully unaware of the fact that they weren't treating a normal human. So I let out cries of pain or distress if they came close, and, unfortunately, I was forced to come to violence—it was only a pop in the nose, I swear—when one got a little too close to my neck. I started blubbering my apology, but as he held his nose he assured me that it was fine.

Out the window in the back I could see the police car following us. For some reason, that made me feel better. I already trusted Officer Charlie and Officer Stewart. They seemed genuinely concerned about me. It felt good.

I lay back on the stretcher and stared at the ceiling. So I lied about not knowing who I was. But I didn't lie about not knowing how I wound up on the side of the road with a bleeding head and a broken leg. The moments right before I went unconscious were lost to me. I strained my mind, hoping to find something, anything that would help, but nothing came.

So what was the last thing I remembered? Running. That's not unusual. But where was I running to? Why? I was . . . running through trees. I was running away from someone. I was running toward someone else. I must've taken the wrong path. I must've slipped.

Or I was knocked out on purpose by an enemy.

It all came back to "I don't know." I felt drowsiness come upon me, but I fought it off. I couldn't fall asleep. There was too much at risk. Lives were in danger at this moment, and if anyone found out who I really was, those lives would all be doomed. Some of those lives were the lives of my family.

My family.

I felt a lump rise to my throat. Why would I even care? It's not like I ever did before. Still, I had never been in an ambulance before. I found myself wishing that my dad was there beside me, holding my hand and telling me it would be okay. I needed my family. Where were they?

This story is partially based on theories I have about our heroine's personality. I'm trying not to make it OOC; I'm just giving you another look in her mind, to a side that you don't see often.

1. How do you think she wound up on the side of the road?

2. What do you think of Officer Stewart and Officer Charlie?

That was it. The first chapter of Forgetful. Did you guys like it? This story is going to be pretty different, I know. But I still think it's a fun idea. Reviews are appreciated, as usual. Thanks so much for reading. Updates on this story will be a bit sporadic, but hopefully I won't keep you waiting for too long. See you all soon! Bye!