The man held a knife to her throat.  It was so close, that the blade nicked her when she tried to swallow a scream.  Her breathing was heavy.  She was in a cold sweat.

He loved this part; the part where they looked him in the eye.  Ordinarily this stuck up little high society bitch wouldn’t give him the time of day.  Now he had her full attention.  She wanted to yet could not look away.

Of course this was why the man would have to kill her when he finished his business.  Because he always made them look at him.  If he let her live, she’d have no trouble identifying him.

What’s this.  The woman did look away.  Her pupils shifted to the side, she was looking just over the mans shoulder.

The man stole a glance.  He had to know what was so interesting, it was worth looking away from him.

Hanging upside down from the edge of a fire escape was a great bat.  

Not really a bat.  It was a woman in a bat costume.  The costume was bizarre, as though stitched together from peices of cloth that didn’t quite match.  the cowl had pointy ears, and there was a bat insignia on the chest.

“Bian Fu,” said he.  He had heard of her.  The vigilante who protected the people of Hong Kong.  In the stories she is fierce.  For a moment he was frightened, but only a moment.  She was just another petite asian girl.  Her body had a nice shape, however she was thin to the point where she could be anorexic.

Regaining his confidence, the man took his knife and charged at her.

She effortlessly avoided two thrusts of the knife, then did a flip off the edge of the fire escape and landed on her feet.  She tripped and unarmed the man, then getting him into an arm lock, handcuffed his wrist to his ankle and left him for the police.

The woman who might have been his victim, gave him one good kick to the ribs, then thanked Bian Fu.

After taking on a few more criminals, Bian Fu made her way to a small apartment.  It was a modest place in a crowded district.  The rent was paid by small amounts of money she herself took from the the drug dealers and human traffickers she defeated.  The vigilante wasn’t proud of that, but she needed to live.  Actually she could afford to move to a higher end place, except that she had no source of income that she was able to list on a tax return.

She looked around at the nice things she had.  Bian Fu was not a materialistic person, but could take pleasure in knowing what she had worked herself up from a much worse place.

She removed her mask.  Beneath it was the face of Quiao Peng.  A face not truly hers.  

In the shower, Quiao reflected on her past, as hot water washed away the grime of the streets.

In her earliest memories she was six years old. She lived in an orphanage.  Quiao remembered telling people that she didn’t belong there.  In her wildly implausible narrative she was a wealthy American, on a journey.  On this journey she sought out a man, a sensei of martial arts.  What was his name?  David Cain, she remembered.  

He betrayed her.  He stole Quiao’s real body. 

She believed this so strongly as a child.  Looking back she remembered telling people this story and believing it far better than actually living it. 

People used to tell her she was crazy, that if she kept spinning ridiculous yarns she would never be adopted.  That was true.  Quiao never actually was adopted, not that many children her age were.

Wearing a robe, Quiao laid out her kimono.  She had a shift at the club tommorow.  Quiao hated that place, it smelled of cigarettes and cheap cologne.  She only worked there to spy on its Yakuza clientele.  

Once everything was in order, Quiao turned on the television planning to watch a few minutes of the international news before going to bed.

There was a report about Bruce Wayne, age 32, who was giving his full endorsement to Lex Luthor’s presidential candidacy.  

“Bruce Wayne.”

Quiao rubbed her temples.

“Bruce Wayne.”

She fought back a headache, and forced her thoughts to flow.

“Bruce Wayne.”

“David Cain.”

“It’s him.  He stole my body.  Now I know where you are you bastard.”