My name was Dalphée. Now, I'm Dale Villeneuve.
I know, it sounds a bit like the name of a private detective in a 1950s noir series. But in this world, everything is darker, more dramatic, more... Gotham. So I guess it fits.
I woke up in a bed that wasn't mine, in a body that wasn't mine, in a world I never chose. The first thing I saw was light filtering through heavy curtains. I rushed to the bed to open them, but the moment I barely touched the fabric, my arms started tingling. A mild burn, but familiar.
The sun.
My condition had survived the transfer. Great.
The mirror reflected a strange image back at me.
A teenager with almost white-blond hair, steel-blue eyes, and alabaster skin that seemed ready to melt at the slightest ray of sun. Taller, more masculine, more... not me. Not Dalphée.
And yet, I knew it was me.
Or at least what was left of me.
I whispered to myself: "Okay... either this is one hell of a dream, or I'm dead... and reincarnated in a parallel universe." I hesitated. Then I added out loud, bitterly:
— A universe where I'm a guy... Fantastic.
The door opened slowly. A man stepped in. Tall, charismatic, in a flawless black shirt. He had the same expression skating coaches used when I flubbed a combination jump: calm, but heavy with judgment.
I recognized him immediately. My heart skipped a beat.
— Hello, he said in a deep voice. Feeling okay? You fainted last night. Probably just a shock.
— You're Bruce Wayne, I cut in.
He paused.
— Indeed. And you are Dale Villeneuve. You've been placed under my care after...
— After my parents were killed in Gotham during a robbery attempt, I finished for him. I know.
He narrowed his eyes. Just a little. The kind of micro-expression you only notice if you're used to reading figure skating judges.
— Have you regained your memory?
— Not exactly.
He stayed silent, assessing. Like a detective deciding whether to cuff you or offer you tea.
So I took a breath and dropped the bomb.
— I know you're Batman.
A dense silence. He didn't flinch, but I saw his fist clench, ever so slightly.
— And I don't know because I guessed, or because someone told me. I know because... in my world, you're a fictional character.
He stepped back a fraction of an inch. Not enough for anyone else to notice. But I had been trained to detect shifts in balance and muscle tension. I grew up on ice, not in the streets.
— Excuse me?
— Bruce Wayne. Billionaire, philanthropist, tragic alleyway event, secret double life. You're Batman. And in my world, your life is seen in movies, comics, animated series. You're one of the greatest superheroes ever imagined. And now... apparently, I'm living inside that damn fiction.
He advanced slowly. Like I was a bomb. Or a wounded animal. Or both.
— You claim to come from another world?
— Or I had a concussion and a deluxe psychotic episode. But just in case, I'm going with the first option. The second doesn't sound nearly as appealing.
He rubbed his chin.
— And what else do you know?
I stepped closer.
— That your butler is named Alfred, that Dick Grayson was the first Robin, that Jason Todd came back from the dead, and that Barbara Gordon ended up paralyzed because of the Joker. Need more proof?
I crossed my fingers that he'd say no, because I was running out of knowledge about this universe. I preferred Marvel to DC, okay!
He remained silent. Long. Heavy.
Finally, he simply said:
— Come with me.
The hidden elevator behind the bookshelf was exactly like in the comics. Down below: the Batcave. Giant screens, vehicles, suits of armor. A sanctuary of shadows and technology. I didn't need to ask any questions.
But it wasn't the Batcave that hit me hardest.
It was the uniform. Behind a display case.
A Robin costume, more subdued than the animated versions. Dark red, black, a few touches of green. And a plaque with an inscription:
"Training Project: Dale."
I pointed at it.
— You planned this?
— No. But you arrived in Gotham under unusual circumstances. And you possess physical and mental abilities that few people your age have. And most importantly... you seem immune to fear. Or you hide it very well.
— I competed in front of thousands while sick and on new skates. Gotham? That's just another level of difficulty.
He smiled. A real smile, almost tired.
— Very well. We'll proceed step by step. You'll train. Adapt. And maybe... maybe you'll become something more.
I looked him straight in the eyes.
— I'm already something more. I survived a world that wasn't made for me. And I'm still standing.
He nodded. Slowly.
— Welcome to Gotham, Dale Villeneuve.