I only own Jester; the rest belong to DC Comics and other parties associated with them…

…

I shivered, a common reaction during that time of year, the time where the small particles of snow accosted my face and made both my nose and cheeks flush. I sat there that night on a rooftop, my back against the cracked, concrete ledge. Across that ledge, separated only by the vile street that I had dared not touch, was the old Solomon Wayne courthouse. Old was an odd expression, as the entire face of the building looked little more than a decade old while its rear looked incredibly aged. I stared at it, the grimy marble reflecting only a fraction of the moonlight.

I looked down briefly and saw a group of half a dozen men huddled on the steps. They all wore dirty, orange jumpsuits and were talking actively. I held my breath, as the small nagging at the root of my brain commanded me not to make the slightest of sounds. Carefully, I slid lower to the flattop, wincing at the sound of crunching gravel. Even the slightest of noises caused me to jump, normally when others were around. They weren't to know I was there. They weren't to know I even existed.

As if to prove my paranoia, a hiss erupted a few feet next to me. Foolishly, I let a squeak escape me. Frightened, more by my sound than the one beside me, I dug my back into the wall, letting the pressure serve as a punishment. A minute passed and I glanced over the edge and saw, to my relief, the gang below me hadn't noticed at all. Calming down, I looked at the culprit. It was a burnt out peculiar neon sign in the shape of a question mark. A lonely, green spark emitted from the shell. I sighed, knowing I should have expected it. There were hundreds of the damn things scattered throughout this Hell. Mom would have had my ass for such an outburst, even when her voice screeched like a screechy violin.

The only reason I was taking refuge on this rocky, uncomfortable seat was because of her. It was a mixed bag of what exactly I felt. My first answer was anger at her or, more correctly, I was irritated. That's what my Mom said when she was annoyed with me. Irritated. My mother had never been angry with me. I know this because I am still alive. I have seen what happens when she is angry. The result is not very subtle or civil, nor is it clean. It was one night a few years ago; I saw my mother angry with a man that had crossed into our home. I couldn't sleep that night, or the night afterwards.

The other reason for my reclusion was embarrassment, the reason being even more unbelievable. I was embarrassed because I couldn't cheat. As expected, it was my mother who pointed out my flaw. We were playing poker. I was losing, of course. Mom, glaring maliciously at her own overflowing stack, rolled up her sleeve and released a number of high value cards. She asked me why I hadn't done the same and I told her that I had tried, except that the cards kept escaping to the ground. She huffed, almost like a child, and said that I could never be the high class cheater that my father was. After saying that, her eyes welled with tears and she excused herself to go bully someone while I escaped, a single tear rolling down my cheek.

I didn't know a lot about my father, mostly because she would start sobbing whenever he was mentioned. He died before I was born, I had learned that he had gotten sick and dropped dead. It was a simple death, I suppose. Hopefully he hadn't suffered much.

Remembering my father's image wasn't an issue, not entirely. His face was etched into my brain from daily exposure to around my home. My mother had set up what could only be accurately described as shrines. They had been there since my birth and ever sense. I remember first his face, covered with the stains of red lipstick belonging to my Mom. Of most, it was the white pancake makeup on his face (or at least I hope it was makeup) that frightened me. His blood red lips weren't pleasing either. His hair and eyes, as green and bright as the spark from the question mark, haunted me.

That man, a man who was responsible for practically most of my nightmares when I was younger, was my father.

His name was Joker, tales of my mother.

I breathed; the thought that I was the seed of a deranged clown always took away my air. Maybe it was because I was afraid that I would grow up to be like that. On an instinct, I looked into a power system panel attached to the wall. I still had my blond hair; gifted genetically from my mother. My face was pale; I wore no make-up, unlike Mom. Perhaps it was because of fear of looking like Joker. I was still donning a small size inmate shirt and pants that Mom had snatched, not a crazed purple suit. Then, I noticed the twin dirty features: My eyes, bright green, and my smile had the ability to stretch across the entirety of my face.

A sharp cracked sounded off, breaking me out of my thoughts. A moment later I heard a light thud from behind me. It was the first noise that didn't make me jump. I sat silently as I suddenly felt a few strands of my hair lifting from my shoulder. I repressed the urge to giggle.

"Hello, Selina," I said dully.

"You don't seem very happy to see me, Jess," said Catwoman, taking a seat on the ledge behind me.

"I'm sorry," I said. "I'm just in a crappy mood."

"You mean Harley put you in a crappy mood?"

"Exactly," I said, leaning against her leg. "You've been out giving Two-Face a hard time?"

"Please," she hissed. "It was mostly revenge. I still haven't forgiven him for obliterating my apartment. Plus it took me a quarter of my treasure to patch up my suit."

She used her faux claws to flick my ear, trying to cheer me up. It just succeeded in annoying me. I rose and stretched, turning to face her. She smiled at, a friendly gesture from my only friend. Her black fighting suit gleamed in the moonlight.

"Speaking of your mother," said Catwoman, leaping off the ledge and walking the few paces in front of me. "She sent me to collect you. Its past curfew, you know?"

I glanced over her shoulder and saw that the small cluster of inmates had vanished.

"I still find it hard to believe they have bedtime in Hell," I pouted, kicking the snow at the bottom of my feet.

"I was thinking you would have gotten used to it by now," she said, smirking. "Arkham City's been your home ever since you were a bun in the oven."

"I've realized," I muttered darkly.

She gestured me forward and lead me down a fire escape. We had to take the slow way nowadays. When I was little and I snuck out, Selina would piggyback ride me through the city. I still missed the ruse of flying through the air as she used her whip to fly in between the buildings. At least with the slow route, we were able to chat more.

"I heard you beat the hell out of Penguin the other day," I said.

"Yeah, I may have," she said as we walked through an alleyway without fear. "The fat pigeon deserved every slice I gave him."

I laughed, the sound echoing off the walls stained with graffiti. Selina always cheered me up, even when it was with anecdote brimming with violence and thievery. As I listened to her talk, I couldn't help but feel a ruse of jealously. I wished I was as smart mouthed as her. I wished I could make such a remark and make her laugh for once. But I couldn't. I had tried before and it had never worked. I couldn't blame myself for listening rather than speaking.

After all, I couldn't tell a joke to save my life.

…

Ok, no idea where this story is heading. I know the first chapter is short, but it's more of an introduction. This story's Just a little thought that popped into my mind as I finished Arkham City. Please review and maybe tell me what villain I could include in this. I need some side characters to pepper in. Thanks for reading!