Mr. Nobody

There are stories of the Aces, the Jokers, the dead, and the untainted. This one is for the Deuces, those who got a taste, a tease, got jerked out of their world and shoved into another with nothing to show for it but a bad taste in the back of their throats.

I stood outside the junkyard fences when the Turtle first lifted his shell. I sat in the balcony when Tachyon first addressed the Senate. I watched behind the barricades during the first of the Jokertown riots.

I'm not an Ace. I'm not a Joker. I'm just a quiet little Deuce trying to get by.

When the virus hit me, I wasn't doing anything. I was sitting alone, hidden in a suburban forest, watching a river meander by. I passed out...

...and woke to myself. I peered into the sliding waters, and saw no change come over me. My bicycle still sat leaning behind a tree behind me, and I started to pedal for home. It wasn't until I arrived that I discovered it was no longer there waiting for me, as it always had.

Before the virus, I was a nobody in essence, and now I am one in body. I'll never stand out in a crowd, and even if you catch me standing alone, you'll never remember my face. You can't ever remember my face.

I'm unemployable. Even though I look normal, no-one can remember talking to me, let alone engage with me long enough to hire me. I suppose it's strong enough that even the Aces pass me by, again and again, discounting me as another faceless fan. Jokers have enough on their own minds to worry about another unfortunate soul.

I'm unloveable. Even hookers forget I'm beteen their legs. My anonymity is universal.

But I'm not invisible. That, perhaps, would be more useful. I can't walk through security checkpoints, I'll be detained; I can't tresspass, I'll be imprisioned; I can't be locked up, I'll be forgotten and left to rot.

So I ride. I steal just enough to get by. I write, and only my words are seen and felt and heard... as long as I'm not around to get in their way.

The End

1 comment about this story Feed