What I remember from after all that, the incident at the docks, after I surfaced--to hear my name, to see a familiar face--and sank down again...
[[I wake up and even before I open my eyes--Ay, ay, the pain
--I know that they are all gone. The noises have stopped and a chill wind brushes across my body, ruffles my hair. I'm wet where I lie unnaturally against the waterlogged, rained-on wood of the docks. Finally, I open and see--I'm right--nobody around. Where could they have gone? And left me? Subconsciously, I begin cataloging what's broken. My legs, all of my right arm, ribs...
I couldn't have been unnoticed; there had been more than one person trying to keep my body, flesh-sack of broken bones it was, away from the fighting. Miss P.. That's who'd said my name. The arm is the worst. And the rest of me is lying heavily on top of it. That doesn't help.
Does that qualify me for the bat's threat to shut me up, I wonder. Will she tell someone? And my left hand as well.
Or has she, already? How long has it been? There's what looks like a wide smear of wet blood, a drag-mark from a few yards away, leading to where I am. Wet, so it hasn't been long. Or perhaps it just wouldn't dry out here.Where did they all go?
But I can't move. I need help, I know I need help. I look--I'm next to some hulking metal shipping box, and to the other side is the bay, and there is nobody, nobody anywhere--and I'm about to shout for someone before I remember where I am. It isn't as though I've spent much time down here, but I certainly haven't made any friends. I move my left arm, the one that's least smashed. Pain snaps up my arm like a gunshot, like something being twisted. But I can't stay here. I can't stay here. Something is wrong
. I twist my broken fingers around the small microphone wired into my belt, twist them so it won't slip. I close my eyes and grit my teeth against the pain, the crippling pain that I know is coming--bend my arm to bring the mic to my lips. My fingers scream and it echoes, tearing through the cold, wet air. No, it's me. I'm the one screaming. I tremble violently with the effort to keep the little metal link against my mouth and not just drop it and give up. The microphone tastes like iron, tastes like blood. I don't know if anyone will hear. Alfred is probably asleep and certainly nowhere near anything resembling a communicator, and Bats--I don't know where he went, I don't know where any of them went. For all I know, they all jumped into the harbor with each other as weights. The point is, I don't know if anyone will hear me. But there's nothing else to do.
"Please," I whisper. It is the loudest I can speak, for now I'm starting to feel the rest of it, the subtler pain that bodes worse--the way my middle...my insides...feel like a rotting peach, something falling apart. "Please, I'm still here, I'm still here, I'm still here..."
The microphone slips from my fingers, zips back into its place among the other useless things. I'll not reach it again, I can't do that, not again, no. I let my head drop, hit with a thick sound against the soaked wood. The gray pre-sunrise sky opens again, and begins to rain. Drops find their way into my eyes and my eyes rain in reverse, rain like eyes rain in a world where people vanish. Please, I'm still here, I'm still here, I'm still here...
As it turns out, the last time I'd used that microphone, I was answering a direct order from Batty. So he'd heard me after all, and come to find me. Or, I assume that's what happened. It's something you assume when you wake up in a bed, somewhere in what's left of Wayne Manor, all zonked out on some kinda anesthetic and with most of you slapped into dry plaster. Feeling no better, but at least away from the docks.
And Bats is the only source I have for what happened that night, all I've got is what he lets slip. He doesn't really talk about it. Hasn't. So I'm in the dark.
And I'm still here.
Two weeks later, not even a deck of cards to keep me busy. And gol does it itch under this cast.