The Meanings of Lost

Chapter 3

Bruce:

A loud tune brings me out of my sleep. On my bedside table, my cell phone is lit up and ringing. I pick it up and see Diana's face on the screen. I roll my eyes as I debate whether or not to accept her call. She's been using Alfred to keep tabs on me after my run-in, I guess she now wants to make sure I'm fine from my own lips.

My phone goes dark and grows quiet. So fate has decided for me. I smile.

The music starts up again and the darkness of my chamber once again becomes illuminated by this little screen bearing the photo of Wonder Woman. I roll my eyes again and huff. She will not let me sleep until I answer. I get and pace around before answering.

"You know it's midnight in America, Diana," I say into the receiver.

"Man up," she snaps, her voice sounds agitated.

"What's wrong?" I ask.

"I...well I met the kid you were talking about, face to face."

 I smirk. I was right, not delusional. 

Diana continues: "She has an uncanny resemblance, I'll give you that. But I don't have a kid." Beep. The call ends. I walk over to the fireplace and turn it on. It clicks to life then fills the room with heat and light. I slip back under the covers, a smile on my face.

I made her speechless. I soon fall asleep to that comforting, wonderful thought.

Diana: 

I abruptly click end on my call to Bruce. What was I thinking? I should just let this all go. But no matter what I do, it is the one thing I can't do. Thoughts come into my mind unbidden, delivering me stories and theories.

How well do you remember the year after the war? The little voice whispers in my mind. Truthfully my memories of the events post the war are hazy, but still the idea is insane.

My work had finished less than half an hour ago. I need a distraction. I go to the nearest public washroom and change into my Wonder Woman armour while no one is around then I scale Big Ben. Atop this tower, I can hear and see next to everything. But I do not have to see everything. I close my eyes and listen. Daily noise disappears. No cars, no trains, nothing but the voices. I listen for shrieks of fear. Then I hear what I want. Someone shouting, the police radios. I leap into action.

~~~~~

The weekend is passed the same. The news swarms with pictures of my face and the villains, robbers, and terrorists I brought to justice. London compares me to Superman and waits with agitation for America's response. My banner flies from every high-rise. Whatever it was that I had intended to forget was gone. Nothing remained but the reputation I'm building for myself.

Late Sunday, I walk as Diana Prince down the more touristy streets, slightly afraid of being too alone in my civilian skin. The sun is setting behind the buildings, turning their tops luminous with reds and yellows.

This place was now my favourite. People moved in and out of shops, with all sorts of accents, asking for local delectables and tips on what souvenirs their precious daughters or lovely sons would like, even though they hadn't cared enough to bring them along. Tourists and natives alike held hands as they walked admiring the lights and the shops and the smells that wafted out of the bakeries. Music lined the streets as fiddlers and guitarists and musicians on every instrument imaginable played their hearts out, hoping to go home with slightly heavier pockets than when they had arrived. I drop a few coins into every small can I pass and wonder if my mother would be proud of me.

I'd killed Ares, I stopped the war. She would be proud of that. But now? I was a vigilante roaming the streets of the first town that took me in. I worked at a museum, as I knew more about Greek history than historians. In their defence, they did not live in Themyscira. They'd never confronted a god.

The crowds have dimmed down; I must have wandered further than I wanted. What street is up next? There is one around here I know I must avoid. 

Too late. I drop my handbag as I'm confronted with a poster for The Nutcracker. On no, I'm on the street for the Apollo Victoria Theater. My heart begins to pound in my chest. Inside, I am kicking myself for not paying more attention. How could I have gotten here if I was paying attention? And I can pay more attention than the average mortal. Inevitably my eyes find themselves drawn to the dates. The show will be running from the 18th until Christmas. It will probably go until New Year's once the tickets sell out in record time. They, like the rest of the world of men, are always looking for more money. I close my eyes and speed walk past it.

See, Diana, not so bad. Nothing happened.

If nothing happened why is my heart beating in my ears? Why are my palms sticky with sweat? Why won't the face of a stupid little girl go away? I dig my nails into my skin. Bad Diana. No thinking of her. Not now, not ever. This is an insane game Mr. Wayne got you caught up in. Don't start losing it now.

I can't. I plead with myself. I just can't. Her face makes me think of him, makes tears swell up in my eyes and turns my stomach to rocks. Makes me wish we had a kid, makes me wish he had left with something more than a watch to love. 

Mayhap the reason why I cannot get this out of my head is that I want it to be true. I want her to be mine. But who am I kidding? The girl has a life and a family and dreams. She's related to someone else and I just have to move on. Again. Why is everything in the world of men, by the gods, so hard?