Dani

It took about four seconds to escape the parent cop. She left me in the hot car, almost one o'clock in the afternoon in the middle of May, to go inside and get coffee from a cafe. I'm not surprised. I've met some very nice social workers, and she is not one of them.

Why go into social work if you're just going to be awful? It can't be for the money.

Whatever. I walk through the security glass divider between the front and back seats to steal forty bucks from her glove compartment.

She won't miss it. There are wads of twenties all shoved in a gallon plastic bag. Probably sells drugs to kids or something.

I stroll away from the car and disappear into the bustle of afternoon traffic, making sure to keep my hat low on my forehead in case I ran into the few cops I'd met in this city. I'm not staying for long, but I came all this way to meet the next hero on my list, so I'm not leaving until I've seen him.

So I have this list. It's my reason to travel the world. It has all the superheroes on it. Or at least all the ones I've seen or heard of. Sometimes I go to a random city and meet a hero that hasn't made the papers yet.

I've been to Greece, Russia, England, France, Germany, and Egypt searching for them. Not for autographs, or because I'm obsessed and need a glimpse. But it seemed like an appropriate list to follow, given my family, and there are so many nowadays that I'd be traveling all over the world.

And I have.

Now, I'm in Bludhaven, to see the legendary Nightwing. I'd been here three days with no luck, and it was just dumb circumstance that landed me at the corner where that dude got hit by the car.

At least it wasn't all bad. That one cop was nice. A little naive, but nice.

I head down to the docks, knowing crime happens as easy as walking down here. Cops don't usually care. Or maybe they do and just can't make it down here; at any rate, it's clear of cops and of people that might report me. Assuming the social worker even contacted the cops in the first place.

A ship just docked, and people have massed around, either disbarking or unloading. Someone tries to pickpocket me twice, but there's nothing in my pockets. My money is stuffed in my shoe and the very few possessions I own otherwise are phased into the ground at the foot of the "Welcome to Bludhaven" sign.

I've been doing this a long time.

Once the crowd thins out, I spot the pier and go there. I love the pier. Sure, it's nearly black with tar and any respectable people have been left behind a long ways back. But there's a sea breeze full of salt and mist and the noise of the dock is a low buzz in the background.

Deserted, except for the rare homeless slump waiting for dusk's drug deals. I learned very quickly from my travels how to identify the dangers of a particular city. If I fell asleep where gangs came to communicate, that could lead to a full-on war if I were spotted and assumed a spy. If I stumble on a bunch of kids' hideout, I would be assimilated.

Man, the adventures I've had.

I climb on a stack of lone barrels and boxes near the edge of the boardwalk. It's probably been here for months, maybe years. The wood is weak, but I'm not too heavy, so it creaks but doesn't crack. Swinging my legs, I watch the ocean and the bustle of the dock.

This city would be quite the destination if it weren't so crime-ridden and dirty. In fact, I think the main pier, which is further down the shore, is a popular tourist destination, if all the signs posted are any indication.

This pier was probably popular once, too, but it's too forgotten and old.

History interests me, and I find myself wondering about the particular history of this dock. Of this whole city. This beautiful destination must've been used for something other than casinos and gangs at some point. I suppose that's why Nightwing wound up here. Something so beautiful should be preserved, right?

I let the wind ruffle my hair. A pang of loneliness hits me unexpectedly. Someone should be sitting here with me.

As if in response, I hear an unidentifiable but distinctly human noise just off to my right. I glance around but find no one. I half expect to turn around and find the legendary Nightwing (that has happened in one or two cities), but there's no one.

I slide off the stack of crates, causing the noise to start again. Is it a whine, a cry or a groan? I don't want to unearth a high thug. Deciding the noise is originating from the pile of wood I'd just left, I pull the nearest crate out from the pile and lean over it.

I find a pile of cloth.

Leaning further over the crate, I reach towards the cloth, figuring there must be a child or something underneath.

I uncover a dirty, obviously sick newborn.

"Hi, baby, baby," I coo, reaching under the baby's neck and bottom. "What are you doing here?"

"Hi, girlie, girlie," comes a mocking voice from behind me. Masculine and sinister, a taunting tone to his voice. I already know this will end badly. How did he sneak up so quickly? "What are you doing here?"

Since I'm already halfway out with the baby, I can't replace him quickly enough when hands pull me out by my legs. My skin scrapes roughly on the wood, but I grit my teeth against the pain and dig my elbows into the crate. It doesn't slow me down much, but I kick my legs to remedy that.

With one lucky kick, the guy grunts and drops my legs. They slam rather painfully onto the dock, but since my elbows are still locked on the crate the baby is unharmed. I waste a precious second trying to see the baby in my hands, giving the other guy time to reach me again.

This time, when he yanks me towards him, I have just enough time to set the baby down before his hands are on my shoulders. I wrench out of his grip, throwing my body to the side so one of his hands loses its grip. I back kick him hard on the knee so I can escape the hold, whirling to properly face my opponent.

I'm by no means a skilled fighter. Yeah, I've learned street fighting to a T and some would say that makes me good. But if my opponent has official training, like a hero or villain, I'm screwed. This guy, fortunately, is nothing more than a thug. Probably a druggy.

He throws a punch, intent on getting me in the face, but I easily sidestep it. Druggy is thin and dirty. Still twice my size, but that's never stopped me before.

I let him come at me a few times more, allowing him to lead me to the opposite side of the dock. When my back hits the rail, he gives a yellow-toothed smile, reeling for a final punch. He throws all his weight behind it, right at my face again.

I tilt my head away from where he aims, and he's thrown forward. Moving quickly, I shoulder his waist and grasp his disgusting bare legs, tipping him over my shoulder and into the sea below.

He bellows until he hits the water, back first, with a satisfying smack.

Finished, I wipe my hands off on my jeans and return to the child. He's so small and sick. He has a clump of sparse brown hair and though I can't see his eyes, as they're tightly shut, I imagine they're the most brilliant shade of blue. His skin still has visible veins, and his face is red.

I murmur to him comfortingly as I make my way back down the dock, careful of any other friendly drug addicts.

"I'm going to call you Jack," I decide as I head to where I thought I saw a hospital. "Because you're going to be huge, just like Danny's dad. Plus, Vlad hates him, so he's probably a hero. He's a little daft, but you won't be like that. You have to be a special kind of person to be like that."

The streets are starting to fill with people as rush hour draws closer, and I have to hold Jack tightly against my chest to keep the passersby from jostling him. The more the streets fill, the harder it becomes to sense direction. Soon, I'm hopelessly lost and being swept along by the crowd.

Deciding to break free, I head towards the street, where the public avoids a good two feet of sidewalk space for taxi room. I end up on the corner, still trying to decide where to head next. I'm on Georges and Fourteenth. Where is that?

"Hey, I know you," comes from behind me.

I cannot roll my eyes far enough into the back of my head.

I turn to face the cop I'd left at the station however many hours ago. He's leaning against his cop car that I hadn't seen when I'd breached the crowd, his arms folded and a pleasant smile on his face.

"Where's the social worker?" he asks, eyes glimmering in amusement as he rocks off his car and comes closer to me.

I glare. "I threw her into the ocean."

He raises his eyebrows in surprise. "Really?"

"NO."

His smile returns full force. "So you just… left, then?"

I roll my eyes again. "Did you know that unless you are a cop car, all barred off back seats are required to have an emergency fire release? It's in between the seat cushions."

That's not a lie, actually.

"Yeah, but I didn't know that's where they put foster kids."

Sweet little innocent boy.

"Right. Anyway," I turn back to the crowd.

"Wait, you still shouldn't be on the streets by yourself!"

"That's exactly where I should be," I snap, turning back to him. But then I remember the bundle in my arms. I don't know where the hospital is, but I'm guessing Officer Innocence here does. "But I'm not alone anyhow."

His eyes dart to the bundle pressed to my chest. "Is that a baby?"

"His name is Jack," I affirm. "Anyway, he's yours now." I shove the baby at him, only hesitating long enough to see him carefully catch Jack and cradle him into the crook of his elbow before I disappear back into the rush hour traffic.