undergrounds | And we don't know where we're going and we don't know where we've been (Amnesia plot post)

23 February, Early Morning

He wakes up in the middle of a field - actually, a football pitch in Hounslow, but it seems vast and strange to him. He feels a nagging sense that he's lost something important, but he can't remember what it is. On further thought, he realizes that it's not the only thing he can't remember. He has no idea who he is, where he is, or why he's standing in the cold rain. The only thing he can remember is the feeling of an old ring hanging on a chain against his chest, under his sodden clothes. It's familiar and safe, and he knows that if he removes it something very bad will happen.

So the boy crouches in the mud and puzzles through his odd predicament.

A woman at a bus stop opposite the park is the first to see the small figure in the rain. She approaches the pale child and asks him what he's doing out so early, offering her umbrella, but he doesn't seem to understand her questions, growing increasingly agitated and confused the more she tries to help him. He's obviously lost, and the thinness of his arms and legs concerns her. She calls the police.

That night, the evening news broadcasts a picture of a boy, believed to be between nine and eleven years of age, who has been taken into care by Child Protective Services. They are looking for anyone who may recognize him since he does not seem to recognize himself. It generates a bit of buzz online, but it's hardly a leading news story with everything else going on in the world.

There's a follow-up the next morning, but this time it leads the program: a nurse in the mystery boy's hospital room was found dead late last night, drained of blood, her throat ripped out. The child is nowhere to be found.

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Natasha isn't sure exactly what she expected. She hadn't consciously predicted anything when she'd heard Joscelin's state. Still, what she finds strikes her as... strange. Joscelin's bearing is different, subtly but also markedly.

"Natasha Romanoff," she says, shrugging out of her jacket and setting hanging it on the back of a chair. "We've met."

"Have we?" The boy--Joscelin, he reminds himself, though that name still hasn't any meaning for him--gets up and walks eagerly towards her. His smile is warm and genuine--a little excited, even. There's something very familiar about this new stranger, and that's comforting.

"I don't remember very much," he admits a little sheepishly. "I'm sorry I don't recognize you."

His excitement, the fact there's warmth in his interest in her instead of jaded curiosity, take Natasha somewhat off guard. Not that she had assumed his attitude was intrinsic to his personality, but she didn't realize that he would be so childlike without his memory.

"I very much doubt this is your fault. Don't apologize for it." She smiles at him a little, encouragingly. "How much do you remember?"

Joscelin shrugs. "I hear I'm called Joscelin. And I've got this." He shows her his ring. "Cesare said it was my mother's, when he first got me from the police, but I don't remember her."

He doesn't mention his fears about why he can't remember anything, or why he's so hungry all the time.

"May I ask you a question, Natasha? How do you know me?"

That feels like a loaded question, implying how much he doesn't know. She's not sure where to start explaining that one. But she'll do her best to answer his questions, especially when he can't quite hide the concern behind them.

"We move in similar circles, I guess. We keep running into each other."

"What circles? Are we friends?" And why are all the people who claim to know him so much older than he is?

He really doesn't know how much he likes being Joscelin. While it's good to know that he had an identity before it was taken from him, the little nuggets of information he's received so far don't add up.

"I wouldn't say we're not friends. Though honestly, I'm not sure you like me all that much." Strange that she'd be honest with him now, when it would only confuse him more, but it doesn't seem fair to lie. "It's complicated."

"How? Tell me." There's a little more steel in his voice than he's used to. Is this what the old Joscelin was like? Rude and demanding?

"No one will tell me anything. How am I supposed to remember if no one will tell me?"

Natasha draws a deep breath, sighing through her nose. She meets his eyes, not too impressed by his demands. It takes a lot more than that to cow Natasha, even if there's an impulsive child who doesn't know his own strength behind the words. "There's a lot to tell. Knowing bits and pieces might be more confusing than not knowing anything at all."

"Who was I before this?" Joscelin is practically begging now. His eyes burn with unshed tears of frustration. "I know I wasn't a normal kid. I know Cesare isn't my dad. I know my mum probably didn't even give me this ring. I'm not stupid."

"You're right about Cesare not being your dad," Natasha confirms after a short moment of hesitation. Drawing this out isn't going to deescalate the situation any. And maybe he deserves to know. "And I don't know if the ring is really from your mother or not, but I would be more surprised if it was at this point. You're right. You're not a normal kid, and you haven't been for a very long time."

Here it comes.

"I'm a monster," he replies almost a little too eagerly, trying to just get it over with. "That's what I am. I killed someone and everyone's treating me like I could do it again because I'm a monster."

"You've killed people. So have I. And Cesare." Natasha's chin rises a little, studying his face. She sighs, relenting. What she has to say won't be worse than what he's imagining. At least, not insofar as she has answers for him. "There are people who would call all of us monsters, and they'd have a strong argument for it. We're vampires."

"Vampire." He likes the way the word tastes. A familiar little feral gleam lights up his eyes. He'd known this was coming since he drank the nurse's blood, but being named makes it feel more real. More final.

And then the moment passes and he's the same scared, skinny kid as before.

"What do I do now?" In Natasha he sees a spark of something, a familiar steadiness that tugs at the memories still closed off to him. He looks to her for guidance.

"What do you want to do? Does knowing change much?" Her brows rise slightly, questioning. Her tone is calm, reasonable. "You know what you are and what you need, and you know people who can help you with that, but you still don't know who you are or what happened to you."

And as far s Natasha can see, getting his memory back is the highest priority, but they need to know.

That's true. He doesn't know anything about himself, except for what he's gotten second-hand. As far as he can tell, his life began in the middle of a football pitch in Hounslow on a wet Thursday morning.

"Do I know people who can help me with that, too?" Natasha is more of an authority on his memories than he is at this point.

"You know me, and Cesare. That's a pretty good start. And Jean-Claude, if he comes by. I'm sure we'd all be willing to help how we can." Natasha's not sure just what she can offer. It's possible she'll need to reach outside of her normal sphere on this, follow up with witches and metahumans. That's not too much to ask, though.

"I want to remember," he sighs, looking up at the ceiling. "Everyone's been very nice to me but I feel stupid like this. So if you and Cesare and...Jean-Claude--" and that name feels like there ought to be a memory behind it "--can help me, I'll try very hard to remember."

And we don't know where we're going and we don't know where we've been (Amnesia plot post)

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