Trickery (A Damian Wayne Story)

The Well

The world around me is hazy, blurry, illuminated by a strangely familiar light. It rolls back and forth before coming to a stop. I stare at the perfect circle of blinding yellow through slitted eyes. It stares back.

Where am I?

Everything is indecipherable.

What can I remember?

Nothing.

Who am I?

I don't know.

I'm sitting, back resting against a brick wall. The ground below me is damp and somewhere I can hear a faint drip. My hands find puddles beside me, sparkling in the flickering flame of a fire shining overhead. I try to get my feet under me, but the movement sends a wave of coughs ripping through my chest. That's when I smell it. The liquid isn't water. It's gasoline.

I scramble to my feet successfully this time and tread a few steps away, splashing through more puddles. I'm not attached to anything. I'm not cuffed. I'm free, but soaked in the highly flammable liquid. My clothes feel heavy against my skin, hair wet. I stare up at where a candle burns on a shelf a few feet above my head.

I am Ibn Al Xu'ffasch.

The thought comes to me suddenly, startlingly, like a voice in my head. My voice.

"I am Ibn Al Xu'ffasch." Somehow, the words don't feel like mine. It's like someone else is saying them and the switch makes my head feel cloudy. Well, cloudier. I resolve to not speak again, until I can figure out why my voice sounds so odd to my own ears.

I splash through more gasoline and grab the flashlight off the floor, shining it around at the space. Instantly the word well comes to mind. It's circular, the walls are brick and bare aside from the ominous candle shelf. I gaze upwards, finding countless stars spilling over the night sky. The walls can't be much taller than ten feet, but they're smooth. Climbing out might not be an option. I take a step forward, craning my neck, but suddenly flinch backward. My legs. They're in tact. I stare down at them, bend down, feel my kneecaps, my shins. I have legs.

Why is that a surprise? Why wouldn't I have legs?

I tell myself firmly to sit. Relax. Figure this out. I grit my teeth as the phantom sensation of my bones shattering hits again. Real pain blossoms in my torso as I bend my knees up into a small sitting position. I let my head rest against the wall, the stench of gasoline still permeating my nose.

A baseball bat swings through the air, rocketing my body outwards in an arch that's so powerful it breaks the chains of my restraints. I open my eyes, forcing the scene from the forefront of my mind. I let out a shaky breath and put my head in my hands. What happened to me?

My hands are above me, body tugging at my wrists where the cuffs dig into the joint. I hang from just the cuffs, legs restrained, but not weight bearing. My eyes drag upwards, a heavy pain at the back of my skull threatening to take over. Slade stands in full uniform, but instead of his dual swords it's the black baseball bat again, gripped tightly between his gloved fingers. He steps forward and sends it swinging against my body.

Three things become clear inside my head.

Torture. Slade Wilson. Mother.

I couldn't see her. I can't place her face at the scene of the crime, but I can feel her. She's all involved somehow, but the question of the hour is whether or not Mother helped Slade or helped me. There's a faint tickling in the back of my head, a patchy memory of Mother hoisting me off the ground, carrying me away, but again her face isn't shown. Just her essence. I remember looking over a shoulder before I passed out, watching Slade slip in a pool of his own blood, before falling unconscious.