...Um, yeah, first time doing one of these. I'm probably the greenest fanfic writer out there, I honestly don't know what I'm doing. Not to say that my story is no good, I think it's fine, and my sister really likes it but, hey, what do sisters know? Anyways this will be rated T for now, because my OC has a potty mouth and there are scenes of violence and minor character deaths ( mostly OC's) . So yeah, enjoy. I'm not going to beg you to review but I would appreciate... Wait, on second thought, yeah, review, or I may have to hold chappies hostage... Alright, enough jabber out of me...

Read on, mates.

Oh yeah, and I don't own TDK or the Joker... The Joker owns YOU!

Chpt. 1 The Bank

There's no certainty- only opportunity~ V for Vendetta

Ever get the feeling you're being watched? I have it twenty-four-seven. Even before I arrived in this god forsaken city three days ago. It's pathetic, really, that a twenty year old woman should have to be constantly looking over her shoulder. Aren't your twenties supposed to be some of the best years of your life? So far, I'm not impressed.

Tuesday morning, at nine am, I get dressed in relatively plain clothing; a pair of black boot-cut jeans, a dark green long sleeved shirt with a squared neckline, a pair of old Steve Madden boots and a swipe of mascara. I'm doing as I'm instructed: Don't be noticed. I can't get caught. Besides, Gotham isn't really a place where you want to be noticed, and everyone wears dark clothes anyway. Saying that it's a dark city is a huge understatement. I put the thick yellow folder back under my mattress, grab my satchel then head out.

I don't get a cab. Even the cab driver's are corrupt and involved with the mob. So, I walk two blocks then hop a bus, which goes another ten blocks. My temporary apartment isn't in the Narrows; that's too dangerous. But, since I can't attract attention to myself, and I need to be hidden, the apartment I've been given is on 70th and Piccolo. 70th street isn't fancy but it isn't too bad. It sort of reminds me of Brooklyn, but grittier, darker. I get a seat in the back of the bus, and pull the collar of my jacket up. I keep my eyes on my lap; I don't look at anyone. Hopefully, they won't look at me.

By the time I get to the bank it's almost noon. Using the bus's black tinted window as a mirror, I pull out some black mascara and dab it underneath my bottom lip, on the right side; giving myself a beauty mark. The bus pulls up beside the bank and I get out, but not before putting on a pair of thick black sunglasses. I gulp as I look up at Gotham National Bank, feeling it loom over me. I shouldn't be here.

I pull out my bank card, or rather, Vianca's. Our resemblance is startling. Same honey blond hair, same curvy lips, same body type (C-cups, small waist, curvy hips, no ass). We could be twins. Could being the key word. Upon closer inspection, you'll see we do have some differences. Some subtle, like how I'm 5'6 and she's 5'5. Others larger, like how Vianca has navy blue eyes with flecks of gold in them, while my eyes are smoky green with a caramel-like colour around my pupils. Vianca's slightly tanner than I am. My eyelashes and eyebrows are darker than her's. Her hair is fine and straight. Mine is thick and wavy. She has a mole beneath her bottom lip. I have light freckles on my nose. Her skin is flawless. We could be twins, if you weren't looking close. I hope no one will look close.

I'm practically hyperventilating. Are people watching me? No, I tell myself firmly. I'm just an average citizen. Nothing remarkable or noticeable about me.

No sir.

Nothing.

I approach the bank teller, running my instructions through my head. A mental picture of Vianca's smooth, loopy handwriting pops into my head, and I reread the words. Having a photographic memory definitely has its perks. Alright, step one: Get to bank.

Check.

Step two: go to bank teller

In progress.

I smirk as I 'read' the side note in my instructions; 'Remain calm, darlin. Don't over think it, like I know you'll want to. xo'

Thanks, I'll keep that in mind.

I walk up to a smiley blond woman behind the desk. I hand her the bank card.

"Ah, Miss Maroni," She greets me- Vianca- chipperly, "Here to make a withdrawal?"

"Yes," I say, forcing my voice to become higher pitched. Musical, even. Vianca always sounds like she's singing when she speaks.

I hand Shirley- That's what her name tag says- Vianca's bank card, and say (trying to sound confident), "I'd like to withdraw 10 million from the family account,"

Shirley doesn't even bat an eyelash at the obscene amount. Must be normal. This is a mob bank. Or so the folder tells me

I wait impatiently for Shirley to retrieve the money. Patience was never one of my skills. That's probably why I never finish a Sudoku or a crossword, and why puzzles send me into fits. Truthfully, I don't understand why I need to get out so much money. What does ONE person do with all that? Then I remember who that ONE person is, and I no longer question my little mission. Shirley comes back a little later, the bills spilling out of her hands. There are several stacks, all wrapped in orange elastic bands. She plops them on the table, looking triumphant.

"There you are. Could you just sign this?" She hands me the receipt and I easily sign Vianca's name; I've been practicing for days. I smile at Shirley forcefully, but sweetly nonetheless. It must have been a little off 'cuz Shirl gave me a weird look, and I took that as my cue to look away and simply start dumping the seemingly never ending bills into my bag. Minding my gun as I do so.

I was about to leave and scurry back to the safety of my apartment, when a commotion made me whirl around to the front doors. Men, three of them, in masks- Clowns? - charge into the bank, their large guns raised. One of the men- his mask has a blue beard and he reminds me of the clown character "Bozo"- is carrying a blue duffel bag. Shots ring out.

Chaos ensues.

People start running around like chicken's without heads. I, instead duck beside a nearby desk, pulling out my revolver. Luckily I had loaded it before I left this morning. I lean over and watch another clown- based off his mask I name him Chuckles- take out the security guard and the clowns skirt further into the building.

"Get down! Hands up heads down! I said heads up hands down!" Chuckles yells at the hostages. Us.

Me.

People stop running and obey, cowering on the ground and shielding their heads with shaking arms. The other clown, who I name Grumpy, points his gun at Shirley, while Chuckles simply grabs another banker and pulls him over the counter, despite his protests. I hear the people around me; some crying, all praying, silently if not out loud. I notice Bozo making his way to all the hostages, pulling grenades- Oh God- out of his duffel bag, and forcing them to hold them, or else they will blow up.

"Obviously," Grumpy's voice rings out, "We don't want ya doin' anythin' with your hands except holding on for dear life,"

Bozo finally makes his way over to me, almost looking casual as he reaches into the bag. I point my gun at him.

"You don't try and blow me up, I won't blow you off your feet," I hiss venomously. Don't notice me shaking. Don't notice the sweat on my forehead. Don't notice. Bozo stares at me through the mask. I feel him studying me. I tense angrily as he lets out a breezy chuckle but he walks away. I sigh with relief, but I don't put my gun away.

BANG. I yelp and look over as Grumpy is blown clear off his feet. A man, obviously the bank manager, steps out of his office, holding a huge shot gun. Shit. Bozo and Chuckles run to hide behind the desks, avoiding the bullets and the crazy man in the fancy suit. Bozo slides in beside me, breathing hard and checking over the desk. I stare at him wide-eyed. He doesn't notice because he runs further away, hunched over as the bank manager continues to shoot.

"You have any idea who your stealing from?" the bank manager shouts.

"You and you're friends are dead!" I must agree. This is not a bank you should rob from.

Close by I hear Chuckles say, "He's out right?" He's referring to the amount of shells that bank manager has. He's not, though; He has one more. But Chuckles pops up anyways, only to be clipped in the shoulder by a bullet. Bank Manager tries to shoot again but he's out. Then, Bozo springs up and pumps him full of bullets. I cover my mouth as he falls to the ground, sputtering and bleeding. This is the first time I've ever seen someone being shot. And, I doubt it will be the last. I watch, hand still over my mouth, Bozo cock his head to one side and stares at the fallen man. It sends shivers down my spine. He looks so curious; predatory. It just isn't... Normal. Fuck, none of this is. Chuckles, clutching his shoulder, yells angrily, "Where'd you learn to count?"

Bozo just stares at him.

I've been sitting here for five minutes. Where the hell are the police? I could, if I was heroic, try and stop these men. I have a gun. I know how to use it. But, this is none of my business. I already have business. I need to be alive, and if I attempt to help, guarantee the clowns won't give killing me a second thought. As long as they get their money.

Bozo strolls around the bank leisurely, waiting for Chuckles to return, surveying the hostages. There's something about his walk that, I don't know, makes me wary. But admittedly- and grudgingly- intrigued. It's graceful, but somewhat lopsided, and infuriatingly carefree. I'm thrown out of my thoughts when I feel someone's eyes on me. I re-focus my vision and flinch when I realize its Bozo, his body facing sideways, but his head turned to me. I stare right back at him. We remain like this until Chuckles gets his attention, and he goes to look at the several duffel bags strewn across the debris. Filled with money no doubt.

"That's a lot of money," Chuckles comments greedily, "If this Joker guy was so smart he'd of gotten a bigger car."

Joker? The name rings a bell. Isn't he that guy on the news? The newbie here in Gotham. Shit, the mobs going to be all over him.

I get on my knees and peek over the desk, wanting a better view. I nearly gasp as Bozo turns to pick up a bag, and Chuckles points his gun at him, clicking off the safety. Bozo freezes.

"I'm betting the Joker told you to kill me as soon as we loaded the cash," Chuckles says. He's shaking, I can see it. He's afraid. I feel acid in my throat. Bozo sighs resignedly, turning.

"No, no, no, no. I kill-uh the bus driver," he replies, checking his watch. He looks up at Chuckles and sidesteps away from the gun. Chuckles side steps as well, keeping the gun trained on him.

"Bus driver?" Bozo sidesteps again as Chuckles continues, "What bus driv-"

The hostages, including myself, all scream as the back of a yellow school bus crashes into the bank, taking out Chuckles. Bozo, not in the least concerned, stumbles back a little. He looks up as another clown jumps out of the back of the bus while hooting cheerfully, "School's out, time to go," He notices Chuckles, who I assume is dead, and adds, "Cat's not gettin' up, is he?"

Jeezus. I've never seen so many dead people before. I'm not cut out for this shit. I'm practically puking over here and I'm pretty sure I have tears in my eyes. People are running around again, still gripping their grenades. I remain, however, on my knee's peering over the desk and watching the clowns. I swear to god, Krusty the clown will never be the same again, which is unfortunate because he's one of my favourites.

"That's a lot of money," New Clown breathes.

Clowns these days. All so greedy.

Bozo starts passing New Clown the duffel bags, who then throw them into the bus. I'm amazed by Bozo, really. He doesn't even look tired.

"What happened to the rest of the guys?" New Clown asks stupidly. Bozo, in answer simply turns around and lifts his arm, shooting him dead like it's nothing. The hostages scream at the sound of another gun shot, and I accidentally bite my tongue. I taste blood, which I don't really mind. I'm not a vampire or nothing, or a freak; I just don't mind the taste of my own blood. Still can't peel my eyes off the remaining clown though. His calm, collected manner is almost- definitely- menacing. I'm afraid of him, sure, who wouldn't be? His complete disregard for human life is astounding. But, Jeezus, he's magnetic. A powerful force, my Gramma would say. My eyes follow him as he walks away from the bus, looking for something. He finds the last duffel bag and hoists it over to the bus. He's about to get in, but Mr. Bank Manager, whom I thought for sure was dead, says bitterly, "Think you're smart, huh?" Bozo stops and looks over his shoulder at Bank Manager. Shut up, I tell him silently. Just shut up. But he continues anyways.

"The guy that hired youse is just gonna do the same to you," He's squirming on the ground, his blood seeping around him. The acidic feeling in my throat is back. Bozo gets off the bus and looks down, distractedly rifling through his blue jackets pockets, finally glancing up at Bank Manager before striding nonchalantly yet purposefully toward him. Shit.

"Criminals in this town used to believe in things," his voice is acidic, spiteful. Bozo is almost upon his now. I can feel my heart beat in my mouth. Fast, heavy, erratic.

"Honour. Respect." Bank Manager spits out as Bozo crouches over him, pulling something from his pocket.

"What do you believe in, huh?" Bank Manager shouts, "What do you bel-" He's cut off when Bozo slides a grenade calmly into his mouth. Christ.

"I believe," Bozo's voice, I notice, is strange. Higher pitched than most men's. Nasally. Uneven...

Frightening.

"That whatever doesn't kill you, simply makes you..." Bozo reaches up and pulls off his mask. Bank Manager gasps; I nearly have a heart attack.

"... Stranger," the man- he can't be human- flashes Bank Manager a grin then stands up, leaving him dazed on the ground, grenade still in his mouth. I watch Bozo- well, no- walk away, and I notice that a piece of thread that is attached to his jacket is loose. Then I see that the thread is attached to the grenade in Bank Manager's mouth.

"Shit," I breathe, then jump off the ground and run toward the closest exit, not caring if the clown notices. I figure he's got the money so there's no need to shoot me now. Besides, I feel like we have a bit of an understanding, almost an allegiance. I get out and in the distance I hear sirens.

About time.

~/~

Turns out I made it out of the bank of the bank just in time. The police had rounded up the hostages- apart from me- and questioned them thoroughly. No doubt their quotes will be in the papers tomorrow. I would've interrogated too if I hadn't skedaddled on out of there. And getting involved with the police is a really, really bad idea. Not part of the plan at all.

Burning Vianca's bank card is part of the plan. I watch it burn solemnly, if not a little proudly. I completed another -and one of the most important- tasks in my folder. I could've died while doing it but that almost adds to my pride. I feeling pretty bad ass right now. Fuck modesty. My good mood is taken over by a shiver, however as today's events play in my head. Sometimes my photographic memory is more like video recording memory. The exchange between the clown and Bank Manager replays over and over in my head.

'Simply makes you stranger.' 'Simply makes you stranger' 'Simply makes you stranger,'

What an ugly twist on an otherwise inspiring saying. Said, although, by a man who I assume has seen and done a lot of ugly in his life. I can't get his... face out of my head. Toxic green-maybe blond- hair, longish and greasy framing a chalky white face with thick black smudges around his eyes, and blood red slashes across his mouth and cheeks; in an eternal, grizzly smile. This, I assume, is the Joker.

What a wonderful welcome to this wonderful city.

There it is. I hope I didn't screw up this scene from the movie. I studied the scene several times, and I have TDK script (get it, it helps and is just awesome to have) so I think it's pretty good. But if you spot something, by all means inform me.

See ya.

linnie kinda spinnie