I wake up with a pounding headache and immediately try to soothe it away, only to find that I can't.
My eyes open, squinting at a bright white light hanging over me, before focusing down at myself. I'm naked, save for a white button-down shirt that feels too much like silk, and covered by a thick woolen blanket. My bed is not so much a bed as it is a gurney, an uncomfortable one, and when I breathe in, the air feels cold and moist. The grey fabric covering me slides as I try to shift, my attention drawn to what's restricting my movements. I'm tied down, leather straps wrapped around my ankles and pinning my bandaged right wrist to a safety bar. My left arm is surprisingly loose, the tie placed over my skin, but unbuckled, as if it was just…forgotten.
Then I hear them.
"-must eat something, and with the nights events, I fear you haven't been giving your injuries proper attention."
"I'll be fine."
"I must insist, Master Bruce-"
There is silence for a moment and then a sharp sigh.
"Not to worry. I've given her a mild sedative. She won't wake until the IV is removed."
My gaze flickers from where I'd been focusing, glancing at the unattached IV stand to my left, eyebrows rising slightly before returning my sight to the dark cave wall and the steel walkway that loops around it. I still, air stuck in my throat.
The Bat Cave.
My head moves, taking in what I can see. It's familiar, in the uncomfortable way that a lot of things are starting to become familiar, and I swallow.
"Did you find anything?"
I force back a jump at Bruce Wayne's sudden question, gaze darting to the side. My clothes are folded and dry on a metal seat next to me. My free hand quickly reaches over to the buckle securing my right arm.
"Not exactly, sir. I took the liberty of running her face through the database. These are records filed by the GCPD, but it seems as if they were only taken a few hours ago."
"They're incomplete."
"It would seem so, but that is not the most disturbing find, sir."
I finish pulling the hoodie over the worn fabric of my old shirt, the tail ends of the silk one hiding beneath the edge of my sweatpants where I'd stuffed it to conserve warmth. I wince as I shove my feet back into the ill-fitting shoes, hoping desperately that they wouldn't squeak against the grated metal floor.
"This is the video footage of the police station when you were captured. It coincides with the timestamp on these forms."
"Wait- rewind it. There! Stop."
Something whirls and clicks, then Jim Gordon's voice rings out, the sound interspaced with static as the video replays.
"Can you see it, Alfred?"
I duck behind a stair case, crouching. Oh, how I wanted so badly to sneak a peek at the famed Bat Computer.
"It's fuzzy, but…it looks like an after image. Like on an old photograph. Is it a girl?"
"Yes. It's got to be her."
My shoe slips and I almost lose it over the edge of a railing, biting my lip instead of biting off a curse. The acoustics in here are great for eavesdropping, not so much for sneaking off.
"Her, Master Bruce?"
"Yes, the woman who… Alfred? What do you remember of the last hour and a half?"
Wide-eyed at the suspiciously flat tone, I scamper quickly around the corner, franticly wishing that my luck will hold long enough for me to get out.
"I- well, you arrived back in the Batmobile. You were… injured and unconscious, but had somehow managed to… I treated you and then…"
Their voices have faded somewhat, probably a sound dampener so you can't hear anything up in the Mansion. I still flinch when the lever I grab sparks, something emitting a low hum in the distance.
"And then… I used the database to… Master Bruce it seems I can't-."
My heart rate skyrockets, pulse pounding in my ears.
"Stay here, Alfred."
But I am already across the cave, through the tunnel and behind the grate, the red light of the elevator flickering as it moves steadily upward.
How I made it back to Gotham without the Bat's catching me will forever remain a mystery. I can only assume that like with Alfred, he simply… forgot.
It was a common trend in the next few weeks.
People just didn't seem to notice me. On the streets, they would walk around me like a river moves around a bolder; in a café, sit down at my table like I hadn't taken the fourth seat. When I went to the precinct to look over the listings, even the police didn't remember me. Like the faded posters on the brick walls of Crime Alley, I was simply there. A 2D image that you could see, but until you interacted with it, didn't have much three-dimension. And just as easily forgotten.
It made finding work a problem.
Every interviewer I met with didn't remember me the next day. I'd been ran out more than a few times, suspicious eyes following me until they seemed to lose focus and blink my image away. Being an average sized white girl didn't make it any easier. I was lucky to just barely be on the nicer side of pretty and that I'd cut my hair into short blond spikes to look more masculine in my thick winter clothes.
I'd taken to picking up day jobs, hands on things, where it didn't matter who or what you were; things that I remained in sight for, so my employers wouldn't have a chance to forget me.
And while I wouldn't say that finding shelter was easier, per se, it was hard finding cheep hotel rooms, sleeping in shelters or worse, on the streets; especially in the winter. What's more, this was Gotham. People were afraid and cautious to the point of being critically paranoid.
You could stand on a street corner and be witness to no less than four crimes within the space of a few minutes, most times, more.
There were the Gangs and the Mafia and the Rogues.
God, the Rogues.
They destroyed things, killed people, and stole more than just money.
How anyone could stand to live in such a volatile place was beyond me.
Without a doubt, Gotham was sick.
The decision to leave wasn't even something to think about. I didn't need to buy a train ticket, or rent a taxi. I could just hop in and be taken wherever, without the pay, because who would remember me anyway?
I wanted to get out, and even though I hated cities, I wanted to see Metropolis, maybe catch a glimpse of Superman. How cool would that be? Walk into the Daily Planet, plop myself in front of Clark Kent and then loudly thank him for being such an awesome super hero. And the best thing? After a few minutes, no one would remember.
I could literally go anywhere, do anything.
Except, I couldn't.
Every time I tried to leave Gotham, something happens to prevent it.
The train breaks down. The taxi gets a flat tire. The plane is full. Even trying to walk out doesn't work, what with the mother of all snowstorms plaguing us with her indomitable fury.
So I found myself stuck and without any means.
The first time I stole, it was because I was hungry.
Every time after that, it was because I felt justified.
People always argue that if you are in a bad situation, it is your responsibility to make it better. Unemployed? Get a job. Uneducated? Get your GED. Addicted? Get help.
I get it. It makes sense; and had I been in any other situation, I would have jumped through all the appropriate hoops.
I can say, in good conscience, that I am a good person. I have never deliberately behaved or acted maliciously towards anyone. I may have thought ill about some people, but everyone has been annoyed or angry at some point.
Stealing is wrong.
I know it. But here's the thing: I can't get help.
People. don't. see. me.
You'd think it'd be a boon, right?
Maybe for a criminal, but I'm not a criminal. I don't want to be a criminal.
I only take what I need, nothing more.
It doesn't help that this is all supposed to be a fictional world.
It doesn't help that I can't remember my name.
It doesn't help that I have memories of a story, a Plot, with fractured timelines that make no sense in the grand scheme of things, with profiles of every major and minor player that has ever been mentioned on the tip of my tongue, waiting to spill out.
It doesn't help that I'm alone.
It doesn't help.
I could have everything I ever wanted, and yet still have nothing at all.
