Strange are the turns that life takes. Stranger still are the people one encounters. And the most strange of all are the things they say and do. Someone really ought to write things down.

She must have been special. I lie awake at night thinking about what it must have been that drew my father to her. Sometimes I look long at myself in the mirror and try to see myself in her. It is difficult; I have not seen her since I was six years old. But I know the large dark eyes and the round face are not the eyes and face of my father. Thus, I must reflect her as a pool of water reflects the face of one curious and brave enough to lean over. I speak as if I know him. I have seen him. I have spent time with him. But I do not truly know him.

Her name was Melissande. And she married my father. His love for her slowed his motions and handicapped his plans. He was captured, and yet somehow – someway, she was taken instead of him. Some say it was heroism, the ultimate sacrifice. I say it was folly. She lived a wretched life in the Pit. I do not know if my father knew of her choice to go in his place, or if he did, how on earth he countenanced it. I do not even know if he knew of my existence. I was born in that place, and raised in it. Memories are scarce, and unpleasant. She was killed one day in a riot, and all I can remember is a hand being placed over my mouth, and a strong body sheltering me from the struggle. He looked after me from then on. He became my hero, my teacher, my everything. And one day I left him. I was too young to realize what I had done. But then, as fate would have it, we were to meet again. I was a fool not to have recognized him before I did. But so much had changed.

An insistent beeping seemed to slice through the still air of my room and go straight into my eardrums. It could not possibly be 5 a.m. yet. Forcing an eye open, the red numbers glared at me through the mist before my gaze, mocking: 5:03. I was amazed at how quickly three whole minutes can go by when you are so dazed and tired that you can do nothing except listen to annoying repetitive sound, but as soon as I remembered why I was getting up this early, energy surged through my muscles, and I sat up, pushing my hair back from my face. Today was the day. I had been working closely with many large companies, gradually building a reputation for myself as a well-known, successful businesswoman. My knowledge of business was limited, gained in an overnight course at a school for delinquents. I made sure I fit in well – my hair was long, but always tangled, and often ill-concealed under an ugly hat. I was sure that half the class could not tell if I was a boy or a girl, but apparently some things are not so easy to hide. No one would recognize the Mel from night school – taking my mother's name for lack of inspiration – as Miranda Tate, the name I assumed for my business ventures. Now I make sure that I look the picture of style and order. Too bad that I hate skirts and high heels. I feel like someone different than I really am, for which I am eternally grateful. I feel beautiful, seductive, and desired, both as a business partner, and, if I do not mistake the looks given to me over champagne glasses and fruit skewers, another kind of partner as well. I am slowly gaining profit, my capital amassing itself in the bank and being invested in shares of Gotham city's most secure ventures. And yet, money is not what I am after. What I am after, I still do not know. Unless it be the slow destruction of Gotham city, and rebuilding of a brave new order. Even then, it is not my dream, but another's.

Going into the bathroom and turning on the water, I let it run for a few moments as I pulled my clothes from the closet and laid them on the hastily-made bed. Then, shedding my pajamas as I went, I stepped into the spray and allowed the lukewarm water to wake me up, running through my hair and down my back, carrying the suds down to pool between my toes before being lost down the drain. A noise made me pause, and reluctantly shut off the faucet, at first hearing only drips, but my ears afterward confirming my first suspicions. A slight, insistent tapping was being drummed on my door. It was the most upscale condo complex that Gotham boasted, and so I did not fear unsavory intruders – only the rich, rude ones who could charm all society and still manage to need me at 5:30 in the morning.

Hurriedly throwing on a bathrobe and grabbing a towel to wring out the dripping ends of my hair, I made my way to the door, opening it with a scowl on my face. The scowl quickly turned to a look of shock as my visitor nearly fell through the open doorway on top of me. I quickly caught him; perhaps not the greatest reaction, but my reflexes are hard habits to break free from, and I dragged him within. He must have weighed three times my weight, but as soon as I pulled him far enough inside for his feet to scrape free of the threshold; the door slammed shut, and I rolled my intruder over.

He was an enormous man, dressed in tattered ill-fitting garments that looked to be from a donation center in the narrows, nearly unconscious and taking short ragged gasps. I quickly began to loosen his clothing, muttering under my breath about how on earth he came to be here. For then I knew him by the mask he wore, encasing his head and covering his mouth with a grating of valves and tubes. It was him. He had returned. His eyes slid open for a brief moment, and they met mine, familiar with pain. And so I turned my attention to the mask.

It took only a glance to notice that one of the tiny curved pipes was askew, it's valve hanging at an awkward angle. A second tube on the bottom row was completely knocked out of line. My fingers were cold, but I worked as quickly as I could, his eyes pleading with me as I did so, knowing that he could not do this himself, even with a mirror. With a small hiss, the chamber encasing his mouth filled once again with the proper mixture of the analgesic and oxygen, and his chest rose and fell at last in deep even breaths. His eyes slid closed once again, and his large hand found one of mine, engulfing it with warm pressure. I could only sit there, and listen to the dripping of the shower and the ticking of the clock as it sped towards 6:00, the time I was scheduled to be at Wayne Tower for a board meeting. I could manage being late, but not absent.

After about ten minutes, he sat up and regarded me with a strange look in his eyes. "I am sorry for interrupting," he said at last, his voice metallic, altered by the mask. It was a sound I had only heard a very few times, but the voice that I knew so well was still underneath, and came through the muffled device at odd moments that still make me shiver.

"How did you know where to find me?" I asked, standing, and regarding him as he hauled himself into a sitting position with his back against the foot of my bed. "I have taken pains to be nearly untraceable."

"You are difficult to lose," he replied, eying me curiously as I hurriedly grabbed my clothing and entered the bathroom. As much as I wanted to sit by his side, to talk, to understand everything that had been going on, I had built up a system of denial that always came out of my mouth before anything else.

"I am glad you are alright." I intended to rush on, but he interrupted me.

"I need somewhere to stay."

"Then stay here. But I have to go, or I will be late." And I slammed the door. In the solitude of the chill white bathroom I took a deep breath, and soon the roar of the blowdryer drowned out the sounds of my quiet tears.