The Meanings of Lost

Prelude

Bruce:

London. London. I, Bruce Wayne, sit on a bench on the sidewalk. London, London. Somehow, this is my first time here. The houses are uninformed, the buses are red. Such repulsing facts that surrounded Diana's life. But I'm here. I know I have to be. For her sake, and maybe for mine.

The old photograph Lex Luther had stolen is still clear in my mind. The people, their faces dead serious, as was the trend at the time, standing in front of a fallen building. All the men were now dead. The woman, dressed in godly armour and carrying an ancient sword, is still alive. Over fifty years later and she never aged a day. Her vibrant raven hair, her Amazonian accent that makes words roll off her tongue in an attractive, nearly seductive way. Diana Prince. The Wonder Woman.

She was supposed to meet me here in the park. It is not much of a park though, trapped between two bustling streets and with roughly a kilometre of paths in all directions. It is practically deserted except for the city pigeons bobbing their heads in hopes of bread crumbs and the grey squirrels that chatter and chase each other throughout the dozens of trees.

The crisp Autumn wind blows through my thick brown hair. I brush it back into place. It must look good when Diana arrives. I look down at my silver watch, the best money can buy. It was half-past noon. Diana is late.

Suddenly a noise isolates itself from the traffic and the wildlife. The familiar click-clack of a woman's heels. It has to be her! I fix my hair. Do I look okay? I should have brought a mirror. The footsteps approach. Through the trees, I can see a familiar figure and the long, wavy raven hair spiralling behind her in the wind. Just like when she had appeared on the battlefield all that time ago, when I, Batman, was pitted against the alien Superman. She had been breathtaking then and was so now.

The figure is closer, but it is small. Too small to be Diana. The figure is has a slight slouch in her posture. As she draws near I can tell that she is reading a book. The stranger does not seem to notice me as she walks past, chewing on a strand of ebony hair.

"Good afternoon," she mumbles as she walks past, turning her head to nod at me.

"Good after..." Diana. But not Diana. The uncanny resemblance in her face. She has Diana's bone structure. I've fought her in practice enough times to know the map of her cheekbones and jaw. But the eyes are off. The girl, now past, has ocean blue eyes and a nose much like one of the men in the photograph. Steve, I believe. Steve Trevor.

I have to ask. I need to. I jog to catch up with the urchin. "Hey," I said, "you don't happen to know Diana Prince, do you?"

Her face registered no recollection. Then her constellation of pimples in an upside-down W on her forehead, nose, and temples furrowed. A sudden flash of fear crossed her eyes. In a swift movement, she closed her book and raised it to my head, striking me. As my vision goes dark and my legs give out beneath me. Not-Diana turns and bolts down the path.