NOW. If this was home, I must be Batgirl. I stood in a huge cavernous space, furnished with a workstation so hot it made me swoon.
Three 30 inch monitors hugged the perimeter of an obviously custom built desk with a chair I knew was a perfect match for my ass.
I sat down without thinking. The iris scanner flashed, the screensaver faded, and I was staring at myself staring back at me. Cute!
"Um, hi there," I said, utterly empty of wit for the moment. - "Don't keep me waiting," she said. "Is there anything out there?"
"I hate to break this to you, but I don't remember a damn thing before waking up naked under the big furry bastard I had to kill."
"Oh shit," she muttered. - "Oh shit?" I asked lightly? - "Oh shit," she said with grim certainty.
"Whatever issue blocks my own access to pre-birth memory must also bork yours," she said, realizing my utterly clueless state.
"Where to begin," she wondered out loud.
This is the daily archive of "Botgirl Lives," a TweetStory, published one post at a time on Twitter under a Creative Commons Attribution Noncommercial Share Alike License
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