Chapter Text
It was dark.
Why was it dark? Had he gone blind? Did he still have his eyes? What happened to hi-Oh.
His eyes were closed.
Yeah, that would make more sense
He opened his eyes, it wasn't much better — now it was just a different type of dark. The first thing he saw was a brick wall, looking a few feet from his face. It was dirty, filthy with something he had no desire to name. The smell hit him next. It smelt of trash, damp rotting trash.
He tried to turn his head to look further down the alley, only to wince at the pain that followed. His head bloomed with pain, like he had gotten wacked across the head. He reached a hand up then paused.
Green. Brightly glowing green. His hands were covered in it. Actually, his entire body was covered in it.
"Ectoplasm?" He mumbled. He knew what it was but he didn't know why he was covered in it? Was it his? Was it someone else's? He touched his neck then head, there didn't seem to be a wound so he was probably just sore.
Hopefully. It'd be nice not to have to worry about an open wound.
He endured the pain, and looked around the alley he found himself in. He didn't recognize it. There was a dumpster a little further down that was so full of black bags that the lid wouldn't close and a rusty fire escape above his head. There was a lot of graffiti (bad graffiti — what was "Kol" supposed to be? Were they trying to write Cool?) on the walls, there was barely any wall left.
"...soooo, where am I?"
A pause.
"Better question. Who am I?"
* * * * * * *
He managed to get himself standing — with a whole lot of difficulty. He felt like a newborn deer — like any second his legs were going to collapse from under him.
"Please don't fall." He mumbled, holding the dirty wall (which he was actively trying not to think about, he did not want to know what sort of substances had been smeared on it) as he tried to keep himself upright. It was proving to be a more difficult feat than he thought.
He still had no clue who he was, where he was, what happened or where all the ectoplasm came from. He had confirmed that it wasn't his — mostly. He had found a few scrapes and small wounds here and there. The worst one was the long cut on his thigh but that had stopped bleeding a while ago. So he figured it was fine. For the most part.
His next move: Find someplace safe (and cleaner) to think without having to worry about getting ambushed by some mugger. It was definitely not a good idea to be out here so late while he was so weak if that alley was anything to go by.
So off he went — shaky, slow and with the proud pace of snail with the goo to match.
* * * * * * *
So as it turned out — it was very hard to get a room in a motel if you didn't have money or ID.
Which he had neither of.
That should have been his first thought but he was tired, sore and running on empty.
He had searched his clothes (after scrubbing out most of the ectoplasm — it was surprisingly easy to get off but it stained) but couldn't find a single thing to help him with his identity. Only the clothes on his back. He found he was wearing a white and red shirt and some blue jeans. He didn't have shoes on, which he did find odd.
Either way, he had nowhere to stay, no money, no identity, no memories and he was getting hungry.
"Soooo.... Now what?" He sighed, his hands on his hips as he stared up at the night sky. The fog in the sky was making it difficult to see the moon. He squinted, "Have I seen this fog before? Does fog look the same? Can it look different?" He spiraled a bit, managing to stop himself before he attracted too much attention.
He really didn't know what to do next, he scratched his head and sat down on the curb. Would he have to find some alley to sleep in? Wasn't that a surefire way to get mugged — or worse killed — while you were sleeping? Was he really going to risk his safety just to get some shut eye?
...
Yes. Yes, he was.
* * * * * * *
No. No, he wasn't apparently.
The second he returned to that familiar (disgusting but familiar) alley, he found a group of people fighting. Some guy in a weird get up (was he supposed to be a superhero or something? He should definitely re-think his costume choice) with a red mask over his face.
He thought the man looked familiar, did he know him? Maybe not personally but he definitely looked like someone he had seen before.
The red guy was fighting off a bunch of men holding random weapons. They were rushing at the man, trying to attack and failing painfully.
The guy with the red mask was clearly on a higher level than any of these men combined.
Should I go? He wondered. Don't really feel like accidentally getting stabbed or shot for interfering or getting mistaken for an enemy. This guy looks like he has this handled.
He slowly backed up, but of course, he just had to slip on a randomly placed bottle (stupid litterers) and fell on his butt, wincing as he hurt his tail bone. That, along with the already present soreness, almost made him shout out loud from the pain.
But either way, he still managed to attract the red guy's attention — after he finished off the other men.
(Weirdly fast too — was he used to getting ganged up on or something?)
The man was approaching. Fast too. His face was still covered, so his expression couldn't be made out, but by the way he was gripping his weapon — a broken glass bottle the man had randomly picked up to fight off the men — he probably wasn't coming to help.
With such a threat rushing towards him, the boy on the ground did the only thing he could in that moment.
He passed out from hunger.
Thankfully it meant he didn't have to suffer from the embarrassment of hearing his stomach growl loud enough to wake any astronauts on the moon.
* * * * * *
When he woke up, (he let out a sigh a relief — thank God he was still alive) he found himself in a run-down apartment with stained walls and a moldy smell to it. He was laying on a bed — a stiff one that smelled of mens cologne.
"It smells like something died in here." He mumbled, staring at the ceiling as he tried to piece together what happened after he passed out.
Had he been kidnapped some weirdo? Had everything been a dream?
"Probably you."
A voice from beside the bed startled the boy, who shot up and tumbled onto the floor in a panic. Regretting it instantly when pain flared through him and his sore limbs.
Oh, that's what happened.
He had caught on. That man with the mask had picked him (technically kidnapped him since he was unable to to consent with coming along) and brought him here.
"You're not gonna kill me ...or something, are you?" The boy asked, looking warily at the man sitting next to the bed, his mask still on his face. "Cause I really wouldn't appreciate that right now. I've got a lot on my plate lately and having some weirdo trying to kill him would not help."
"Tell me about it," the man grumbled, standing up from the rickety chair he has sitting in. He walked over to a fridge — a sad, dented thing that was on its last legs — it was honestly a surprise it was still working.
"So, who are you kid? You with the guys who ambushed me in the alley?"
"Uh, no, actually. In fact, quite the opposite. You guys were intruding on my new home."
The boy stood up, brushing his shirt and pants. There was a lot of dirt and other stuff (don't ask what it was) along with the goo that has stained them. It didn't work. These clothes were beyond saving at this point but he couldn't really get rid of them.
Mostly because it meant he would end up being naked but also because they were the only clue had had about his identity.
"New home? That disgusting alley?" The man glancing at the scrawny kid, "You homeless or something?" He asked, looking over at the boy.
"Yes, in fact." He said, weirdly proudly about it.
The man blinked.
"Not really something to be proud about."
"Maybe for you." The boy shot back.
* * * * * * *
Well, that has been the wrong answer. Or maybe this guy was just in a terrible mood.
Why? Because he was now tied to a chair with the man standing in front of him, his hands on his hips like an angry mother.
"I'll ask you again, who are you?"
"And I'll say it again, I don't know! Is this not getting through your practically non-existent brain or something?" The boy snapped, yanking on the ropes tying his hands. Was rope always this strong? He had a feeling it should be easier than this to get out. "Do you detain every single suspicious teenager you find or is it just me?"
"So far, just you." The man said, making the boy roll his eyes. "What were you doing on that alley?"
"I woke up there — for the tenth time!" The boy groaned, "You're harder to talk to then a ghost."
....How did he know ghosts were hard to talk to? Had he talked to one before? Were ghosts hard to talk to? Another thing to keep in mind.
"Hey, focus!" The man barked, "You expect me believe a teenager covered in suspicious green stuff just happened stumble on me while fighting some gang? Are you sure you're not part of them? Cause if you are, they're really lowering they're standards."
"Yes!" He exclaimed, rolling his eyes again, "My God, I'd hate to be your family. You must interrogate them every time they come home."
* * * * * *
It had been hours. HOURS.
The man was still dead set on being suspicious of the boy — which was getting old at this point. Plus, the boy was hungry (duh, he passed out cause of hunger) but the sudden interrogation had made him forget he was hungry until his stomach growled — loud enough to shake the apartment.
Finally the man gave up on the repeated questions and decided to make food. Apparently all he had in that sad fridge of his was frozen pizza and beer.
And honestly, at this point, the boy would have gladly taken that beer if offered to him.
The man was going to make the boy just watch him eat — as a form of torture to get him talking — but he felt a bit bad seeing how skinny the kid was. So he untied the boy (well, retied his hands in the front this time) and gave him some leftover pizza.
"Oh, yummy, cold pizza that's at least a week old." The boy replied, very enthusiastically. Still, he ate. Why wouldn't he? He didn't even care if it was poisoned. He had finished eating in the span of three seconds — okay, maybe a minute.
"Damn kid, when was the last time you ate? You'd think a gang would at least feed their members, especially minor ones." The man scoffed, sliding his plate over to the boy.
He finished the second slice just as fast, "Not part of a gang, and as for the last time I ate... Uh, not sure actually." The boy licked his greasy lips, "Huh, that's a really good question that I do not have the answer to."
The man started to wonder if this kid really was telling the truth about having no memories. He crossed his arms, "You really don't remember your name kid? Any parents or guardian or even friends you remember?"
If this kid really wasn't a gang member, then maybe he was just an innocent bystander who got caught up in this. If so, he should probably return him before he got charged with kidnapping.
The boy paused, licking the grease off his fingers.
"Uh, uuuhhhhhh...." The boy closed his eyes, holding his head (as best he could with tied hands) and hummed as he tried to look through his basically non-existent memory.
Uh, name... Come on, I gotta have a name... What is it? D.. uh, it starts with a D... Da... Dann... Dan? No... Dani... Daniel...le? Danielle?
"Danielle!" He blurt out without thinking, opening his eyes wide. "I think?" The name was familiar, though it didn't feel like this one. That was something though. Maybe he knew someone named Danielle. Sorry, whoever Danielle is, I'll be borrowing your name.
The man blinked, looking at the boy. He is a boy, right? He squinted, suddenly unsure of himself, "Danielle? Are... Are you a girl?"
"Huh? Uh...." The boy blinked as well, then shook his head. "Oh, definitely not. That's just the only name I remember, though I may be wrong, that's the closet I'm gonna get."
"So for now, My name is Danielle!"
"How bout just Danny?" The man sighed, already done with this kid. Can he just drop him off back at that alley and be done?