Chapter 1:
"That love is mean, and love hurts,
But I still remember that day we met in December."
—Lana Del Rey, Blue Jeans
Wanna Know How I Got 'Em?
We could start the tale of how they met by talking about how awful the weather was that day.
We could start by explaining that the streets were soaked, and disgusting, and smelly, and rotten, and all manner of things unpleasant, because this is Gotham, and Gotham is habitually described as such. But everyone knows that, and really, you don't actually care about the weather, do you? You don't care that it was cold, and nasty, and ugly, and gray, and wet, and that this certain part of town was so very many of these things that it was all but deserted because of it—not to mention the fact that it was on the edge of what was quickly becoming the worst part of the city.
But there were worse places in Gotham by far, or at least that's what Sally was trying to tell herself that fine, gray December afternoon as she sullenly tugged her meager belongings behind her in a wobbly roll-away bag, hunched diminutively into her coat and the purple, knitted scarf she had wrapped around her face as if somehow making herself smaller might stave off the cold. She'd just gotten evicted from her less than stellar apartment complex and had most of her furniture and personal property repossessed. All she really had was her rickety little suitcase, and slung awkwardly over her narrow shoulders was a bashed-up guitar case—exactly what she'd started out with when she'd first moved to Gotham a year ago, only with substantially less funds.
She had about fifty bucks left to her name, which might just be enough to get her back to Massachusetts at a stretch. But Sally had the thought in her head that if she went running back home to Mom and all her 'I told you so' speeches, it'd be the same as giving up on her dreams; the dreams she'd come to Gotham to make a reality. And if she was honest, she'd rather shoot herself in the head than hear one more disparaging word out of her mother's mouth. But at the rate she was going, it looked as though she'd sooner end up dead in a gutter somewhere. Really. The probability was actually much higher than success.
Especially in a city like this.
People died all the time in Gotham. The crime rates were atrocious; even worse than places like Chicago, and Detroit. But Sally was still young—little older than nineteen years old—and of course, she reasoned that none of the terrible things she heard about on the news could happen to her. What she didn't know was that one of those terrible things happened to be waiting for her right down the next dark alley she passed…
Jack had been having a reasonably lucrative day, in comparison; a lucrative week, as a matter of fact. He'd been with a crew on a jewelry robbery just a couple days ago, and Jack had always been good at cracking safes. 'Good' being the operative term there—it was almost an insult, really, to call it that. Jack was more than just good at what he did. Indeed, he was so good at his 'job' that almost every act of burglary, larceny, and theft where he was involved went off without a hitch. But with every victory, and every successful heist, Jack felt a slowly sinking feeling in his gut…
It was starting to bore him.
All of it.
No, Jack liked to entertain the idea of being a people person. He wasn't one, of course—his personality was a little too…let's call it strange—but it wasn't for any lack of trying. It was simply a sad fact that every time he tried to tell a joke, he was more likely to get punched in the face before he got anyone to laugh. (He'd been told his sense of humor was highly insulting, and learned quickly as a result that comedy could be killer). But despite being disliked by the vast majority of people he met, resulting in all of zero friendships with people outside of 'work,' Jack still craved that certain 'connection' human beings need to form with others to stay sane.
Now, Jack never claimed to be a pillar of sanity, (perish the thought), and if he was one with the sense of mind to analyze his own actions—which he wasn't—he would have thought that perhaps his recent dabblings might be the result of that crumbling mental foundation, compounded with the need for contact and lack of human companionship. He just found it so hard to relate to folks these days…and the only way he knew how to go out and meet someone new and interesting was to mug them.
Which, he reflected to himself ironically, is mildly pathetic.
But he was going with it.
And so, he grabbed the next person who walked by and slammed them into the filthy wall of the alley, flicking out his knife and pressing it to their throat.
Sally gasped into her scarf in shock as the wind was knocked out of her, dropping her guitar case and her bag with a clatter. She instantly felt her heart skip several beats at the sinking feeling of an icy sharp blade at her cheek, sending shivers across her skin as she slowly raised her eyes to take in the face of the man who had her pinned to the wall. The first thing that stood out to her was a rather menacing scar below his lower lip, and dark eyes that devoured all light—or so it seemed at first glance in an even darker alley.
Really, Jack was a good-looking guy when you saw him in the light and the scar was less noticeable. He'd had it since he was a kid, and got teased for it in school before circumstances had forced him to drop out. He had been glad for it at the time, but hadn't considered the long-term consequences of the decision. For the most part, he didn't regret it. After all, he reasoned, his current occupation was a lot more interesting than whatever he could've gotten with a high school diploma. And on the subject of interesting things, he found himself vaguely marveling over the fact that the woman hadn't screamed yet.
Sally was incapable of uttering a word at that moment, her scream caught in her throat as she stared at the man with wide blue eyes. She felt a deluge of burning tears building up behind them though as a wave of sinking despair washed over her like a tidal wave. And with a sick sense of realization, Sally was certain she was going to die—just like those poor girls on the news—just another body in a back alley in Gotham.
Jack reached for her shawl curiously with his free hand, always fascinated by the tiny emotions that crossed a person's face in moments like these, watched as she tried to press herself further into the wall in a futile effort to put distance between them, watched her wince her big, sad eyes shut as he pulled down her scarf…and he stared.
He wouldn't have been able to tell by the huge parka she was wearing, but unmasked, Jack could clearly see the blonde was beautiful. Of the tragic variety, he could tell, with those big, deep-lidded, eyes that stared at him soulfully, just on the brink of tears. This, he found himself thinking briefly, was the kind of girl you took to dinner and a movie, then kissed her hand after driving her home and walking her to her front door.
Why wasn't she screaming, he couldn't know. He had it on good authority that all beautiful girls like her were supposed to scream very loudly, with harsh, screeching voices that grated on the ears. But this one wasn't, for whatever reason. And he thought that as long as she wasn't screaming, he could at least take the time to be polite. How does one engage polite conversation in these situations, he tried to recall…
"Afternoon, gorgeous," he greeted with his most charming smile, although instead of putting people at ease, Jack was told that most people found his grin oddly unsettling. And so, in a vain effort to sound friendly, he inquired, "How's life treatin' ya?"
It was then that Sally finally found her voice.
It came out softer and huskier than Jack would've pegged a beautiful girl for.
"Terrible…" she whispered,
and promptly burst into tears.
Jack blinked, taken aback.
It's not that he didn't expect tears. He'd held up lots of crying girls before—guys too. He'd heard it all, pleading, begging, or some derivative thereof. And any minute, he expected the girl to do the same. But she didn't. She didn't fight or beg or try to reason with him. She just cried, and cried… No. No, he thought, this girl just seemed generally depressed. Like something he said had upset her deeply. And to his own surprise, he genuinely felt bad.
"Aw, come on," he found himself trying to console her, chuckling to lighten things up. "It can't be that terrible. I mean, uh…you can only go up from here, right?"
She shook her head, shoulders shaking, heedless of his knife at her neck.
"I got kicked out of my apartment today," Sally admitted to the mugger tearfully, though she wasn't sure why. She was slightly hysterical at this point, and she thought maybe that could be the reason.
"Oh, that's a shame," he remarked.
And since he seemed to be listening to her intently, which was sadly more than she could say for anyone else for the last miserable half-year, Sally felt inclined to continue, "I got fired today too. This awful girl I work with accused me of sleeping with the boss…"
"Did you sleep with your boss?" Jack asked her curiously.
Sally looked at him, completely scandalized before erupting with more sobs, shaking her head and wailed, "Nooo!"
"Alright, alright…" Jack raised his hands deferentially at her, removing the knife in the process. He found it intriguing that she didn't try to run, instead choosing to bury her face in her hands, sinking back against the dingy alley wall and crying bitterly. For some reason, this made him feel even worse, and he frowned. Maybe he really wasn't a people person after all, he admitted to himself.
"A-and, this morning," Sally hickuped, concluding her tale of woe with, "m-my mom ca-called and told me—she told me—" she let out another anguished sob "—that my grandma died!" She covered both her eyes again after the confession, finally admitting it out loud for the first time since she'd gotten the bad news, shoulders hunched and shaking with grief. "I ne-never even got to t-tell her g-g-goodbye…"
Somewhere along the line, Jack realized this girl was spilling her guts to him, and not in the way he expected. He acknowledged this as more than a little unusual—even by his standards. He was a crook, not a therapist, after all. But still, something about the whole situation made him feel genuinely sorry for the beautiful sad girl. And she was beautiful, he acknowledged once again. She was beautiful when she cried too, but Jack had the errant thought that she'd be even more beautiful if she was smiling.
Smiling, however, was the last thing on Sally's mind at the time. At that moment, the unfortunate girl would have liked nothing more than for a hole to open up beneath her feet and swallow her.
"S-so go ahead and do it," she murmured thickly, looking up from her hands to stare miserably at her accoster through long, tear-clumped lashes. "My life is ruined anyway, so just take it—you'd be doing me a favor."
It was much worse than Jack had thought.
"Now, uh, hold on—what the heck would I do with your life?" He shook his head, tsking at her in disapproval. "You're being held up, doll. I ain't a killer."
Yet, he added to himself dubiously. He'd been taking more and more risky jobs lately, so he figured it was merely a matter of time before that changed. He wasn't sure how he felt about it and figured he'd cross that bridge when he came to it.
"…Oh," Sally mumbled, tucking her chin to her chest, wavy blond hair falling in curtains around her face.
She considered herself at an all new low when a fierce wave of disappointment flared up within her, almost making her feel lightheaded. Surely one should feel relieved when they found out they were getting mugged instead of murdered, Sally mused to herself with mild self-disgust—certainly not disappointed… She sniffed, hating herself a little, feeling her legs go weak and slowly start to buckle as she suddenly lost all motivation to stand upright.
"Whoa there—" Jack reached out and steadied her before she could hit the grimy, trash-and-cigarette-butt-coated floor of the alley, frisking her pockets and slipping out her wallet surreptitiously as he did so. "You, ah…ya don't look so good, sweetheart."
"Oh…probably just low blood sugar," she lied overtly.
Something in her toneless inflection made Jack think it would be a very bad idea to leave her alone. And so, hardly thinking it through, he swept her guitar case over his own shoulder before politely handing her bag back to her.
"C'mon, princess," he said, and with an arm around her unsteady frame he led her stumbling along through the alley with him. "I think I might know how to solve your, uh… 'blood sugar' problem."
Bemused, mentally exhausted, and still half convinced he might sell her to illegal organ harvesters if she became too difficult, Sally could hardly protest. Though where he was leading her couldn't be much better, she thought grimly. The daylight was quickly disappearing and the darkening back alleys were riddled with graffiti and trash. They passed under a window where vicious arguing and crashes could be heard within the tenement building. Lines of tattered laundry were strung up to dry above them, though Sally was sure the cold wouldn't do much more than freeze the articles of clothing solid. She winced as drops of freezing water pattered down upon her, simply adding to the misery. She was sad to admit that she could hardly care too much at the moment, though. She was at the point of misery where more misery just didn't matter… Her mother would have called her melodramatic, but Sally was of a mind where she could have cared less about what her mother had to say. She didn't want to hear it, and resisted the urge to cover her ears. She knew once that shrill, criticizing voice in her head got going, there was no way to block it out.
"Hey, why so serious?" Her oddly sympathetic mugger gave her a much too cheerful grin. "When the chips are down, just remember…" he said, leaning in clandestinely as if to disclose a devious secret, "It's a biiig scary world out there. Odds are, somewhere, someone is having a much worse day than you." He grinned wider at her. "So, smile."
When has the starving-kids-in-Africa lecture ever made anyone feel better? Sally wondered, mystified by the man who currently had his arm around her. And then she had an even better question, "Why are you trying to make me feel better?"
"Why not?" He shrugged comically at her. "Is it a crime to try and make a pretty girl smile?"
She let out a short huff, replying derisively, "No, but I'm pretty sure pinning one to a wall and stealing her wallet is."
Jack raised his brows at her appraisingly, surprised she caught that; his sleight of hand was legendary, after all.
"Yeah, well…" he answered somewhat sheepishly, "we can't all be perfect, princess."
She did smile at him then.
And her laugh—longsuffering and more sweet than bitter—lilted pleasantly into his ears.
Jack was mesmerized.
In that one small moment, his world quietly imploded then recreated itself.
He didn't even notice.
So, this is a rough draft. It's actually a prequel to a series I've got planned that takes place a year after TDK. This part of the story takes place around five or six years before TDK. It's a crime/romance/tragedy that starts heavy on the romance with a relationship that starts out completely backwards, but what else would you expect with the Joker?
Enjoy it while it lasts.
Because we all know how this ends.