OOC/TL;DR: A nameless man, with evidence of at least one death and no particular need to breathe, wakes up drowned in an urban river with no leads or memories aside from Ra's al-Ghul and Solomon Grundy.He wakes up in the river, and he remembers these words.
Solomon Grundy, born on a Monday.
This is all he remembers. He remembers basic things-he remembers that people walk on two legs, that the water that is crushing him and flooding his lungs is not what he can breathe and that he breathes air instead, he remembers the words to speak two languages, he remembers what color the sky is outside of the consuming water-but he does not remember where he lived and walked, what he spoke, or even his name. All he knows is that Solomon Grundy was born on a Monday and that he is lying with his back on the muddy floor of an endless void of water.
His legs feel strange, simultaneously heavy and light, somehow dissociated from himself, but he forces them up. The water buoys him up. His vague memories of how the world works tell him he should be in more pain, he should need to breathe. In the wet darkness, he kicks his legs, thrusts his arms forwards on muscle memory. His eyes are blind, stagnant water cloaking them. He feels mud in front of him, stone. Riverbank. Wall? He does not know, but he digs his fingers in. He knows now that he does not seem to have to breathe. He can feel the water in his lungs, sloshing as he moves upwards, and taste its foul stagnancy in his mouth. His nails dig into cracks in the wet masonry, dragging him up.
He doesn't know how long he crawls like this, all that is in his mind that this should kill him and a sense of growing panic only held off by this seeming more like a dream than anything real and Solomon Grundy, born on a Monday. But then his head breaks water, and he feels the sensation of air, cold and so much sharper than the stagnant murk. He is in a river, wide and sluggish, stone walls keeping it contained. The banks behind the walls are mostly concrete sidewalks, but near him there is a trash-littered patch of grass behind a rusted bench, the yellow light of a streetlamp illuminating it. He reaches out, grabs for the top of the wall-it rises high above the water, and it seems to him for a moment it is impossible, so he simply grabs for the dry stone, digging in his nails again before beginning to climb. It is much more difficult now, and his body is beginning to rebel. Dark green water streams from his nose and mouth, and a convulsion grips him, but he drags his painfully heavy body upwards. Not yet. Not yet. Not-
He pushes himself over the wall and lands in a heap on the patch of grass. It is softer than concrete. His body convulses, vomiting, expelling the water that burdens it.
It is two hours of vomiting before he is able to move. The water changes through it, going from the dark, muddy water of whatever river he came from to something clear to the point of sparkling that burns his throat like what his vague knowledge tells him whiskey feels like. The grass changes where the second water touches it, but his vision is cloudy and unclear.
He has seen himself through his convulsions, with little to do but feel misery and try to glimpse in foggy vision things that might help him know who he is and why he is-is today a Monday? This is a birth of sorts, so is he Solomon Grundy?-but now he looks at what of himself he can, slowly. His skin is marked with heavy scars-a ring around his neck, a stab wound on his stomach, wounds from what look to have been battles. His clothing is shabby and drenched, his feet are bare(he keeps himself very aware of where he is putting them, the ground does not seem safe to walk barefoot on). His shirt is ripped, and the basic knowledge he has tells him that this is what bullet holes look like. There are new scars, small, round, and much fresher than the pale, worn lines of the old ones. He has been shot enough times to kill him, and then woke up drowning enough to kill him again, yet he lives. He raises a hand to one of the bullet holes, prods it. It does not hurt. His heart beats evenly. The other wounds might well have killed him too, when they were given.
On his forearm is what his memories tell him is a brand-a series of characters burnt into his skin, an angry dark red raised against his arm. He knows what they mean, both in the language they were written in and in the one that the Solomon Grundy line that echoes over and over through his mind is spoken in. Ra's Al Ghul. The Demon's Head. Solomon Grundy's mind races with what it might mean, but with nothing but a rhyme in his memories and the knowledge that he should be dead, he is again lost in darkness.