JADE'S POV

I woke up and I couldn't see. The furry slug was on my head again. It covered my eyes. It was freezing. I shivered. My chest was moving better, like a greased wheel, but it still hurt so much. There was a tube down my throat. It was making me gag. I tried to cough but it only hurt my throat. I couldn't see, so I listened. I sounded like I was dying. My breath was a wheeze. My chest still hurt, but the pain was different. The pain was a kind of throb now.

Was I dying?

If I wasn't dying then what was happening?

I tried to remember if I knew where I was.

I couldn't. I remembered a voice with a British accent and a kind lady's voice and a horrible menacing growl. That was it.

The cloth on my forehead was changed for an even colder one.

I flinched.

I tried to turn to see who had changed it, but I had trouble. The tube in my throat moved when I moved. I coughed again and it hurt my throat. Something wet trickled down my face and it wasn't from the cloth.

I was crying. Again. Dammit.

Something wiped the tear away away.

I tried to reach out to whoever it was. I felt like a baby must feel in a humidicrib- stuck away from the world.

My hand landed on someone. They took it and squeezed it gently. Whoever they were they were friendly.

"It's going to be alright," said a voice.

It was the British accent. It was kind and it belonged to a man. He sounded old – about retiree age at least. I opened my eyes and looked at him. I couldn't see his face because he wore a mask. But he was kind to me, like Steve.

Steve was an old man I shared an alley with. He's the one that set the fires and cooked me roast pigeon, if I could catch the pigeon, that is. He looked after me when I ended up on the streets. Steve didn't get angry when I cried and I didn't get angry when he cried. He wouldn't die because he had me and vise versa. He had to look after me; I was the granddaughter he never had. And he was the grandfather I wish I'd had. Steve and I were a team.

A lot of people who have things as rough as Steve and I try not to feel anything. Steve and me only felt things when we sat and talked at night. We'd sit down around a burning garbage bin and decide what we wanted to feel. Then we each told a story. If we wanted to feel happy, we'd tell a story that made us laugh. If we needed to feel sad we would tell a story that made us cry. We laughed and cried together.

Steve and I only told one story a night, otherwise we'd run out of them.

At that moment I missed Steve more than anything in the world.

I wanted him to tell me a story that would make me think and cry and laugh all at the same time. But he wasn't there. He had been given a life with a house and food and a walker to help his knees. He came and visited me every day, but he couldn't come at night anymore- he wasn't homeless. He had too much to lose wandering the streets at night.

I realized suddenly I'd drifted off again, but maybe that wasn't so bad. Someone was holding my hand this time.


Batman wandered over to see what Alfred was doing. He'd just dropped of the antidote to the Joker gas to have it replicated and mass-produced.

He frowned when he saw.

Alfred was sitting and holding Jade's hand. The girl was asleep, though he doubted it was a natural slumber with all the tubes and machines stuck to her. No one could drift of like that.

Occasionally she would twitch a little, but she was otherwise completely immobile.

All of the sudden his victory was nothing

A little girl was sitting and dying in his cave.

As though sensing his morbid mood, Alfred turned to look at him.

"She's doing a little better." He whispered

"Her temperature's coming down. Leslie's napping upstairs in the study. I've rang Wayne Enterprises and told them you won't be in today. Dick's gotten himself ready for school and rung a taxi to drop him there. Things are as good as they could be, considering. Master Bruce."

Batman smiled.

"Thank you, Alfred. I'm going to get some sleep."


JADE'S POV

When I woke up, I felt better. I'd kind of been in a daze for a while. I wasn't sure how long. It was probably drug induced.

I was mostly unstrapped except for my ankles and wrists. The breathing tube was gone. So was the one in my chest, even though it hurt like hell were it had been. My left knee was strapped up. I felt better, even though I was still coughing.

My IV line was still in. I was probably catheterized as well, but I didn't want to know.

I was all of the sudden quite hungry.

How long have I been here? Wherever here is - Probably the lair of Batman. I thought.

I was pretty sure on that. I could hear bats squeaking somewhere. Real bats, not Batman. I could not imagine him squeaking. Even if you smacked him in the crotch with a hatchet he'd still sound the same, just even angrier.

I sat for a while and tried to mull things over. I tried to put the events in order.

I'd tried to rob the tobacconists.

Batman had caught me

He'd questioned me about some weird gas that had killed these men while I sat and listened. (That thought stung)

I'd passed out or something.

I woke up here.

There had been three people. A woman who shoved a tube down my throat and probably saved my life, a man with an English accent who tried to comfort me and then the Batman.

I didn't know what any of them looked like. They'd all been wearing masks.

So what happened now?

My stomach growled.

How long had it been since I had eaten?

I had no idea, but I was starving. I wondered what bat might taste like - probably worse than street pigeon, and that's saying something.

How was I going to catch one? How was I going to cook it?

Damn it. I'd go hungry

The door opened, interrupting my thoughts.

Batman strode in. He looked more human under the lights. His chin had a scratch on it. Still looked pissed though.

He placed a tray in front of me and turned to walk out.

"Thank you." I said automatically.

The tray had a small bowl of vegetable soup on it and a glass of juice.

I tried it. I hadn't tasted food this good in over a year. The soup was gone before I'd even started. I was sorely tempted to lick out the bowl but I had a feeling I was being watched; there was a camera in the corner of the room.

I downed the orange juice as well.

After that I sat back. I was severely bored. I tried going back to sleep but couldn't.

So what now? Was I going to spend the next few hours sitting twiddling my thumbs?

The room I was in was a bit weird. It had lots of power points and no spider webs.

I got the impression it had been emptied so I could be put in here. It was like a hospital ward where I was the only person. Completely empty.

My bed was the only piece of furniture, and even it was weird.

I felt strange, like I wanted to talk to someone or go out to tea with mates.

I realized then. I was lonely.

I hadn't managed to feel lonely in a long time. I'd been hunched up. There had never been time for thoughts on the street, except at night with Steve.

Steve told me that thinking too much could kill you, and he was right. But if we didn't think we didn't feel, so we had these nights were we would talk about something that touched us. We'd decide what we wanted to feel.

Now everything was back to normal in my head. I couldn't decide what I wanted to feel anymore. It came out without any control.

I felt like my own brain was crushing me. So many thoughts I should be having and so much pain each one would cause. I didn't want to feel them.

I couldn't sit like this, knowing people were dead because of me. Not knowing what had happened to my family because of me. I couldn't dwell. I needed activity.

I looked around and fidgeted. I tapped my fingers on the straps that held me to the bed. The silence was making me squirm.

Nothing worked. I couldn't distract myself.

How would I feel about asking Batman some form of entertainment?

"Hi Batman. Do you have a telly?"

That idea was laughable

How did I feel about having my vital organs crippled?

Same answer.

I looked around at the empty room.

I felt like crying.

Oh Steve, I wish you were here. I thought.

My face grew wet again.

I wish you were here so much.


Batman sat in his chair watching his prisoner. He had to hand her in to the police in eight hours.

She wasn't really anything like he had expected, or more, she was what he expected of a girl with her age or looks except for the whole thieving and homeless part. She was normal, not that he could surmise much from a simple thank you and a few terrified words, and she seemed a good person.

He decided he'd make sure she got a nice foster family through child welfare services, he'd keep an eye out for her, make sure she didn't start thieving again.

He glanced up at the monitor again. The girl had finished her soup fifteen minutes ago, but he didn't want to get the tray until she was asleep. Then he saw she was crying. He should probably check on her.

He walked into the med lab and she immediately froze when she saw him.

She mumbled something nasty under her breath.

"Sore?" He asked

"You wouldn't have a book or something would you?" she said

He looked at her. A book? Crying over lack of entertainment? Spoilt brat.

He must have misjudged her.

"No." he said stiffly

"Um, is there anything I can do? Clean something even?" she asked

"No." he growled angrily

"O-o-okay. Sorry." She said

He turned to leave. He heard her singing quietly under her breath until she was coughing. It made him stop.

"Why do you sing?" he asked

"Huh? Oh, sorry. Stops me thinking," she gasped around coughs

He said nothing, but he didn't leave. There was an uncomfortable silence.

"You sang before? When I found you?"

"Yes." She whispered. Silence lapsed again

She opened her mouth to say something, but closed it.

"Yes?" He asked

" W-what happens now?" she asked

"You will go to child services. In all likelihood, no one will press charges and you will be put into foster care."

Her eyes widened

"Nice foster care." He added quickly, seeing her fear.

"Okay." She whispered. She coughed some more.

"My friend will be along soon to check up on you."

She nodded, covering her mouth.

He walked off. He'd try and find her a book she could read, but something that gave nothing away. Charles Dickens might be beyond her, but The Hobbit might do, if he could find Dick's copy.