Blind Photographs

“Call me something else, I don’t care what.”

Ooh, the implications. Radio snickered. I rolled my eyes.

“Poison came up with all of ours, you’d better talk to him,” He decided as we walked in.

Something came running out of a back room and almost tackled Kobra. My breath hitched in my throat. The mass of curly hair and bright clothing finally moved from her face. It was Grace, looking ecstatic and healthy and completely fine after all of this time of me thinking she was dead. But she wouldn’t remember me. It was too long, I looked too different. She hadn't seen me in years, and by that point she was so young she might've forgotten that she even had a sister at all.

“Kobra!” She squealed happily and he picked her up.

“Hey, Boom box! This is our new house mate. Go find Poison and tell him to come out here and get her a new name, alright?” She dodged into another room shortly thereafter.

“Seems like a nice kid,” I observed, beating myself up internally for not being there to see her grow up.

“Yeah, we’re taking care of her until her sister comes back. It’s been a while, but she’s convinced.”

I could've cried right then and there. She remembered me. But a different me. I made a non-committal noise.

“Bat not working for you?” Poison asked.

“Not who I am, really. Harley pinned it on me.”

“What about before that?”

“Told you, BC7736505.”

“No, I mean before that, even.” I stared at him. Pre-fire lives were things you shared with people you trusted with your life. I barely knew this man. Just because they "saved" me doesn't mean I'm forever indebted to them.

“I-” I stopped to think after that.

Should I tell him? I mean, I had lots of names. I could give him one of those, or make up one, or delude myself into thinking I could trust him and give my old name, or give all of them together. But then there would be questions and nobody wants to deal with all of that. No one had ever asked me so casually.

Say something or they'll think you more insane than you already are!

“I don’t want to share that yet.”

“That’s alright, we’ll call you Photo.”

“Why?”

“You’ve got your past written all over you.”

I swallowed hard at that. Was I that easy to read?I shook my head again to clear my thoughts.
My feet turned toward a booth while my torso stayed facing him.

“You got any leftover hair dye?” I asked, eyeing the fire engine red mop on his head.

“Nah, but we got a dye strip, if you’re interested.”

It had been awhile since I’d seen my own hair. White, then blue, then purple, then bleached white again, then cut short and hidden, and finally green, as it was now. Maybe it would still be like it used to, or maybe the dye would've damaged it, but there was only one way to find out.

“Yeah, I’d like that.”

So a man (…?) going by Show Pony helped me rip the dye off before directing me silently to a rusted slop sink to rinse off my head. My hair curled up into my face, finally free of most of what’d been weighing it down. I looked in the shard of mirror that hung pitifully to the wall and grimaced. Still the same as it used to be, wild with an unfortunate amount of puffiness.

Good look for you. Makes you look like a tumbleweed. Radio quipped. I brushed it off, she could have her opinion. It's not like it made a difference to me.

I was very generously given a cot, which was set up in the back room along with several others. Curious, I checked underneath a booth table. It was held up by supports from the wall instead of a pole going into the ground, leaving the perfect amount of space for me to stuff with ratty old blankets and make into a very disheveled nest. It was better if I slept away from them. Radio had a way of worming her way into the front of my head, getting out while I slept. Who knows what she’d do.