There's a body in a bag. This is nothing new, of course. Bodies in bags are a common occurrence in Gotham City, especially in the early hours of the morning. This one's writhing, which is again nothing unusual; that it is a child in that brown sack is only slightly out of the ordinary in itself. Some might say that such a deed is happening in darkness because the very sun would hide his face in shame. These people are idiots and probably from Metropolis.
The sedan's old and a rusty brown that could infect a passerby with tetanus just by looking at it; the driver sat firmly behind the steering wheel, narrating gruffly to the shadowy figure in the back as the one with the child-carrying sack in his huge paws walks steadily over to the edge of the bridge. The autumn air shifted slowly with the iron-grey waters of Finger River, small pockets of dead leaves swirling with the current.
"He's there boss. Final word," the drive said, a lone street lamp reflected in his glasses.
For the worlds longest moment the child, a young girl, heard only her own breathing, sharp, panicked. Then there's the sharp nod from the back seat and then sudden feeling of weightlessness as the sack, child and all, goes up and over the side.
On the bridge, the car, all three members secured, waits and drives, heading for their next murder, as it was a Friday, and as everyone knows, Friday's are busy body dumping days.
Inside the sack, the child managed to gasp once before the sack hit one of the bridge's supporting pillars with a crack and tumbled limply into Finger River.
In the darkness, there is only the sound of rushing water as the bag quickly goes under as it had been carefully punctured before had to ensure an economical death. Gotham City mobsters pride themselves on efficiency and preparedness.
The child, unconscious or dead (children are very fragile), floated in the water as in filled the bag, and drifted when she's submerged, bubbles of precious air floating out of the corner of their mouth and their eyes closed. They get smaller and smaller as the bag gets deeper and deeper, being tossed this way and that in the currents.
One particularly vicious undercurrent slams the sack and its (mostly) dead child against the rock-studded riverbed. The sack, already tearing from the singular kicking the girl gave it back when she wasn't one foot out of this world, splits completely. She brushes the mud covered riverbed and something comes away in the her hand, before she is caught by the current and thrown up against the rocky wall, stones raking against bare arms and leaving red lines and bruises. The girl's head breaks though the water and she doesn't register the biting air as the Finger River throw, still and almost certainly not breathing onto the hard stony shore. The moon comes out from behind the clouds, illuminating the small drenched figure that will almost certainly be labeled a Jane Doe and cremated.
A breath. Eyes snap open and see only a brilliant white. Then they blink and the light takes the shape of a lamp, hung on the lower intercrossing steal beams that supported the bridge. The girl sat up unsteadily, gulping air greedily as she looked around uncomprehendingly, crying silently. She indulges in this for one, two maybe three hours, before wiping her eyes, getting to her bare, filthy feet and setting off along the stony shore.
A month later, and the feet are filthier, caked in dried blood as well as other kinds of grime, the clothes ragged, the face thin and eyes suspicious. Strangers of all kind are distrusted after the week with Mama Fortuna. The skill of pick-pocketing had been acquired quickly though, for the girl's hand were agile and strong, and was know being employed with varying levels of skill. Today, a grey and grisly Wednesday, as been successful, as the child had managed to find both a breakfast and dinner, though she tried desperately to how hard her stomach growled as she hurried to the safety of her little nest, featuring the five star accommodation of a cardboard box and a few handfuls of stolen laundry as a bed. The neighbour, in question was the small sooty alley cat that the child had befriended and willingly shared her ill-gotten gains with. The pie was for him, and the pastry for her.
She scaled the building with the ease of a child who has never fallen, throwing herself from handhold to handhold with a disturbing lack of hesitation and no large amount of enthusiasm as though gravity was something that only applied to other people.
"Here," she murmured, her voice scratchy with lack of use as her neighbour found her under the small stone overhanging that served as the her roof. He wound around her for a moment, purring, and she placed the meat pie by his feet. She was about to open her own pastry when somebody landed on the roof.
The girl bolted, skidding round the corner to hide behind on of the grotesque's huge legs. She waited, holding her breath. The silence stretched on until a hand tapped her on the shoulder.
The masked woman smiled down at her, the light of the street bellow her reflecting in her green eyes. The girl pressed her back against the grotesque and said nothing, dark eyes flicking from the woman to any possible escape route.
"Easy kitten," the woman knelt down to her level, easing a duffle bag down to her feet as she did so. "I'm not going to hurt you."
The girl reacted with more silence, this one broken by the purring arrival of the alley cat who wound his way though the girl's legs then the woman's, butting his fury head against the leather of her cat-suit. The woman scratched him behind the ears, her eyes watching the little girl as she relaxed slightly. "Is he yours?" she asked.
"He's not anybody's," the girl said, still slightly wary. The woman smiled, glancing at the sky as the large yellow Bat-Signal flashed in the clouds. After a moment, she slipped her mask from her face, tucking a lock of dark hair behind her ear as she looked at the girl.
And what about you?" she asked. "Where are your parents?" The girl shrugged, her eyes fixed on the mask in the woman's hand.
"So you're her then," she guessed. "The Cat-woman." Catwoman smiled.
"The one and only," she said. "And you are?" The girl shrugged again, bending down to scoop the alley cat up in her arms.
"Don't remember," she said, turning round just in case someone else had managed to sneak up on her.
"This tag says you're a Sylvia," Catwoman said behind her, fingers tugging at a tag on the collar of the small girl's short sleeve shirt. The newly christened Sylvia whirled around, hand clutching at her collar.
"Sylvia," she repeated, testing out the sound. It felt right she realised and started smiling. It wasn't helping her find anything that had happened before under the bridge,that was still a great big hole of nothingness, but it was something hers.
"That's what I said kitten." Catwoman tapped her lightly on the nose and Sylvia giggled, ducking out of the way. Catwoman looked at her, small, scrawny, barely five years old, and more alone then anyone she had seen, after herself of course, and came to a decision. "I'm Selina," she said, regardless of who could have heard.
"Hello, 'Lina," Sylvia said, shifting the sooty alley cat around in her arms so she could sick out a hand. Selina shook it, smiling until she caught sight of a familiar brand on her upper arm.
"What's this?" she asked taking the little girl's arm with both hands.
"Mama Fortuna," Sylvia said quietly without trying to pull away. "I don't like her. I ran away." Selina had figured it was. No doubt it was a different 'mama' then when she had been inducted, almost three years older then Sylvia was now, but the Lucky Cat gang had a tendency of being almost painfully unoriginal.
"I didn't like her either," Selina said. "Looks like we're both runaways." Sylvia smiled shyly at up at her; it was nice to be a part of a 'we'. "Would you like to come stay with me?" she asked. "For a little while, at least."
"Really?" she asked, surprised. Selina nodded, smiling at her and Sylvia laughed, injecting sudden joy into the small weary face as she hugged the alley cat to her chest.
"Can he come to?" she asked.
"I take that as a yes," Selina replied, pulling her mask back over her head, before scooping both girl and cat up in her arms. Sylvia let out of soft mewl of surprise when Selina vaulted over the side of the building, but soon she was laughing with delight as they soared over Gotham's rooftops.
Four walls and memories could come and go as long as this feeling, so close to flying with the added rush of falling, would always stay.