His head hurt like hell and he found himself waking up in a place that didn't make sense. There was a home feeling about it, but it wasn't home. Still dark outside, but it was far from dark where he was. A light shining through odd bars. How did he end up in a prison cell? On top of that, why was it slightly open? He hadn't made his way in here all on his own. There was no way in any world that he would ever bother with such a thing. Confusion was what he was in the midst of. Some of this, he could make some sense to, but at best, it just called to another side of him. Both wanting him to take this chance and get away while he could. Now had to be the time. Now was the only time. This was the best he had and he would make do with it.

Slipping out, he was careful, ever watchful of what might come for him. It was a prison, there was no doubt guards somewhere. An alarm set off as he was moving, but it wasn't on him or for him. He was hoping he was right on that, but it only made sense. An escape that meant that he had a chance. Now to not get caught. At least he wasn't in prison clothes. They never did go with his complexion. Not that it ever actually occurred to him as more than a joke.

"Hey, you!" The words had him freeze to a halt. What was he going to do, break into a run when he wasn't entirely sure where he was going. If anything, he could really use a guard uniform right now. And if this guy was unlucky, this could work. That or he was about to get his own ass beat down and tasered. Good time either way, right? He was hoping for the best, but hardly thought this through. Most of it running on the high of adrenaline and need to fight for freedom. His own movements caught the guard by surprise. He hadn't seemed to expect that Floyd was an actual prisoner. Too bad for him.

Uniform was pulled over his own clothes, in order to not leave behind any kind of plausible evidence. Straightening it all as he went. Guard key granting him all the access he needed on the way out without so much fuss.

Monday

Floyd had no money and no idea what was going on. He was in Gotham. How did this happen? Why was he here? Shouldn't he be in Boston? That's where he recalled being last. Who did this to him? His head continued to pound with each new flood of images, memories of his own, but they weren't. The slow resolve pushing through as he began to register what he was sent here to do. He had to finish the job he set out to do before. It was before everything, because of Batman. He had to kill the Senator. Then he could go home. For whatever reason, this made sense. It was the best he could muster here, no matter how logical he usually was. There was no other way to pull anything from this. He was going to get his life back. This was how it was to be done.

Picking a few pockets, he would get just enough money to help him eat for the week. A cheap motel to stay at for a few days while he set himself up. A need to track down the man and get this all going the way it was meant to have went the first time. He wasn't going to get caught. His life was going to be his own again.

Tuesday thru Wednesday

Pawn shops were checked out, watched, before he set out into the night for some breaking and entering. He needed supplies, weapons, anything he could get to make what he needed. A few gun shops too, but he didn't want to be overly obvious. For all he knew, he was being watched, the area surveillance, even though he went through and made sure to keep alarms from sounding off. There were no camera feeds, nothing to worry about at all. Easy pickings. He knew what he was doing and how to handle himself. It felt good, right, as though he had been made for all of this.

Maybe he had, and maybe he hadn't. The way his family life had been, even growing up, he couldn't say or care right now. He needed to finish this job and get paid. He had to go home, back to whatever that was. There was a sense of rush for this, but he couldn't rush the job. No, he had to get it. Whatever signs of sanity, lost on this one necessity.

Working through Wednesday, he was able to pull together all the pieces needed for his own weapons. The mounted wrist guns he was able to create, along with any and all other specialized hand guns, shot guns, and plasma weapons he desired. Because he knew how to work it all. It was almost foreign, but still felt so right. Nothing about any of this maintained sense or sanity, but neither was he. There was no one out there that he knew that he could trust. He was sure of it. Floyd purposely kept quiet, radio silent, not that anyone bothered to care and check.

None of that mattered anyway, none of them. He was going to get back the only way he knew how.

Thursday thru Friday

Tracking and following the Senator, he had no problems. It was easy, almost too easy. Even with the security detail. It made him uneasy. Yes, this was the type of job it was supposed to be before, but why now too? Someone should know that something was up. That he was here, even though he had gone through enough trouble to make sure that no one did. What was going on? It created a hesitancy in him to add that extra time to watch him. Everything set and ready to go for Friday evening when the man was home and practically in his own bed. That time where he would think he was safe from the end that was coming near.

But was this Floyd's own hesitancy, or another side of him? The flicker between what was caught and understood, the familiarity of this world went in and out of his own eyes. What was going on?