I'm tied to a chair.

It's a metal one, with hard, industrial lines and thick cords that bind my legs and knot around my wrists. My arms are pulled back at an uncomfortable angle, my coat nowhere to be seen. I'm cold and my t-shirt is hardly any help. My ribs ache with each shallow breath.

There's a trend to these people. It's got to do with bondage and leather.

The snicker leaves me before I can stop it. This really isn't funny, but pain has always done weird things to me. I'm just having a nervous reaction to a very uncomfortable situation. Obviously, I'm at the laughing stage.

It looks like I'm in an empty supply room of some kind, with a faded, yellow 70's lamp swinging eerily overhead. I wouldn't call the place lovely, but it's got charm, in an end-of-the-line kind of way. There's a suspicious looking dark splotch on the cement floor that leads to a tiny drain in the far corner. I eye it tentatively, before a soft grunt pulls my attention away.

I nearly jump when I notice two men standing on either side of the rooms' only door, backs stiff and arms stiffer over the automatic weapons they're holding. For a moment, I'm convinced that they're staring right at me, seeing me, but then the gaze of the guy on the left flickers. It slides over me, up and around, but can't quite seem to settle. It fixes instead at a point somewhere over my right shoulder. The other one just stares in my general direction, as if glaring at the area is enough to will me into existence.

It makes me wonder what they see: an empty chair, with bonds holding themselves up, or a flash and blur, something glimpsed, but then forgotten?

I cock my head, wincing when the muscles between the nape of my neck and my shoulder size. The puncture area is probably black and swollen. When I carefully rotate my head, I'm able to notice a camera in the far corner, clear as can be. The situation is dire, beyond dire, but I'm finding it hard to care. A strange apathy has gripped me, probably the last dregs of whatever drug they used to put me out. It's fading quickly, though, and I'd bet a hundred bucks that as soon as someone walks through that door, my heart rate's gonna have a field day.

Time passes without definition. The guards' shift, nervous, sheepish even, but like good little puppies, they stay put. My stomach grumbles and the men startle, hands tightening on their guns, before they relax, chuckling. They don't really believe I'm here and that's just perfect. Maybe if I'm really quiet, I can-

The door slams open in a rush and, as predicted, there goes my heart.

"You, miss, are one hard girl to find."

It's The Penguin.

Damn my tired inclination to wander aimlessly at night.

I swallow.

"It wasn't me." I croak.

Oswald looks unconvinced. In fact, he's carrying on as if I hadn't spoken; keen eyes locked on me like a bird of prey.

Damn my tendency to equate everything the man does to winged, fathered mammals.

"Bring it in!" He demands, looping his umbrella impatiently over a wrist. There's a scramble and a squeak of wheels, and then a tiny box Tv is rolled into the room, extension cord trailing behind it. It flickers on after a hastily pressed button, a scene buzzing black and white.

It's the aquarium.

"This," A nasally, horrid voice points out, "is security footage from January 14, approximately 3:56 a.m."

I'd know that conceited voice anywhere. I turn from the watching bird-man, snarl already in place.

"You."

The bastard is smiling, giddy even. I'm vindictively satisfied by the purple bruises forming along the arch of his nose. I hope it swells.

Penguin gestures, thin fingers tugging odd black lenses from his face to place within a vest pocket. Without them, his features appear more shallow, grey and colorless.

"Watch." Nigma taunts and presses another button.

The screen fast forwards, hours of nothing going on forever and ever and then-

There is a flicker of grey.

The video slows as Nigma turns a dial. For fifteen minutes the same spot flickers, grey then white, then grey. The Penguin shows up, in all his shuffling glory. My mouth goes dry. My aching lungs snag.

And I see myself.

Just for a minute. It's plain words are spoken and I wince when things go from cordial to confrontational, my form moving casually away into…nothing. Just…gone. I don't know how to feel; what to say. My face is there, recorded. It's wonderful, and amazing, its-

-an absolute disaster.

"Five weeks. You eluded me for five weeks. I-"

"Not now, Riddle." Penguin snaps, coming forward with a firm glare.

Riddle sniffs at the threat, then winces. A smirk dies on my lips the instant I feel the cold tip of Penguins' umbrella beneath my chin, against my throat.

"I don't remember this. And I don't remember you." The cane tilts my head upwards. He clicks, finger wagging in a mild mannered scold. Then his voice drops.

"That doesn't sit right with me."

I shift uncomfortably, every blot and bruise on my body crying with the movement. Like last time, I choose to be honest.

"It just happens."

His umbrella lifts from my skin and he eyes it contemplatively. A moment later and all I feel is painpainpain, burning hot against the left side of my face. Blood trickles from my mouth where my teeth have cut the inside of my cheek, the dark liquid dribbling down my chin to stain my brown t-shirt. My eyes are wide. The missing fear creeps in.

"I don't like when women lie to me." Metal brushes lightly against abused flesh. "Try, again."

I lick my lips, tasting copper.

"You won't remember." I rasp, unable to come up with an explanation.

The Penguin's head moves a peculiar twist, lips quirking. His crippled body coils-

And I flinch, gasping. "Because you can't! No one can! No one notices or remembers. You forget because I don't exist!"

"Fascinating." Nigma mutters, but my eyes are all for The Penguin. The Riddler moving closer is just background noise, the hired goons grim and blank faced. They see me now, I'm sure they do, but even though my eyes plead, nothing changes in their stances. There is a hand gun pointed at me, the umbrella handed off. It aims down, at my legs and-

"Don't bother." Edward interrupts. His arms cross casually over his chest, the striped, green fabric of his folded cuff links contrasting nicely against the purple of his vest. It's a new one, I notice, not a drop of blood in sight. How long had I been out?

The Penguin raises an eyebrow.

"You know she's telling the truth. What's nowhere, but everywhere, except where something is?"

"Nigma. You know how I feel about your riddles."

He sighs, put upon. "Nothing. The answer is nothing. She's like the riddle. No history, no documents. The only thing I could find is a single file from a police report. With your security footage, there's only two known records of her in existence. I found her for you, but we had a deal, remember?"

The Penguin's eyes narrow in thought before the gun disappears and he's leaning against his umbrella again, the picture of frailty.

"Delete that and burn the file. You'll get her when I'm finished."

Nigma nods and leaves without a backwards glance, Tv trailing behind him. I look on, shuddering when the steel door snaps shut. I flinch when the Penguin speaks.

"He seems to believe that you can be useful." The man has moved closer again, standing in front of my chair. He leans forward, smiling.

"I'm inclined to agree." He straightens, cane tapping the concrete. His voice is a pleasant droll, comforting, gracious; safe. My face stings in reminder.

"You're going to work for me. Do what I tell you to do. Dance when I tell you to dance."

"No." The whisper leaves my chapped lips without my consent, thoughts unfocused. This is everything I was trying to avoid. I can't do this. I will not.

"No?" It comes politely interested and I look up, meeting his gaze. It's cold.

"I won't kill for you."

He hums, tisking.

My hips hurt, my face is on fire. I'm having a hard time breathing though the pain in my chest. I don't want to die. Compromise. Compromise.

"Information." I announce, belatedly.

There's a strange look on his face. I don't like it. "You'll be my snitch?"

I shake my head. "Snitch implies loyalty. I don't have any." I try to take a deep breath, but stop half way through. Sweat beads at my forehead and slides down the nape of my neck. I feel sick.

I swallow, trying to ground myself. "Kill me and you lose nothing. But keep me alive, and I'll be the best damn Informant you've ever had. Anywhere in the city you can't get to, I can." I pause to blink black spots from my vision. "My only request is that you keep me out it. I don't want know what you do with the information; I don't want part of your crew. Let me come and go freely."

Penguin sneers. "You want to be independent? And that's supposed to benefit me?"

"Yes." I gasp. Blood and saliva leaks from my mouth. Whatever is wrong is getting worse. I need to finish. I can't faint. I close my eyes, trying to stem the flow of dizziness. My voice is clipped, sure. "Once I leave this room, I'm gone. You won't remember this conversation and you won't remember me. That's the nature of what I do, what I am." I swallow back blood. "If I'm to be effective, I can't be on a leash. There is no point in wasting your time trying to keep track of me. Just… let me go."

He exhales sharply, clearly impatient. His chin juts out in an action I can't see. "If I won't remember, how will I know you?"

"Please… I need-"

"How will I know you?"

Desperate brown eyes open, blinking up at him. "Give me something! Anything. Something you don't need, but will recognize anywhere." My head is lolling, bile rising in my throat. Oswald is close enough to touch, something held in his lean fingers. Over the fear and blood, the nausea and pain, I think I smell something completely out of place.

Floral and warm like…

Lilacs.

AN: For those of you who haven't noticed, I've switched this story to be a Batman: Arkham Asylum/Gotham crossover. The reason for the change is one word: Penguin. I've found that I rather like Gothams rendition of The Penguin, more so than any other I've seen. I've even changed chapter five: Meeting a Bird to reflect this. So while the setting of the story is still Gotham as seen in the video games, certain characters reflect more closely with their brother versions than the ones in the game. If you haven't watched Netfix's Gotham, I highly recommend it, for viewing pleasure as well as for significance to this story.

Ta!

~Delgodess