Summary: Ginger, the Godchild of Jim Gordon works temporarily at the Police Station. It's much to her excitement and discomfort when the Joker is arrested, and even more so when he escapes and kidnaps her, in belief that she has some kind of importance. But ironically, she turns out to be more important to him then he would have hoped.
Rating: T, could possible be raised to an M because of gore.
I own nothing but Ginger and the plot. And I might as well apologize in advance if this chapter is boring. But then again, it's simply the introduction of the character Ginger. This turned out a bit longer then I wanted it to, but that's all I can do, I suppose! So, read, enjoy, and reviews are always appreciated :D
"Ginger, are you paying attention?"
Ginger's eyes snapped forward to her Godfather, her chin lifting from her hand. "What? Yes, yes, I was listening," she quickly replied.
Jim Gordon raised a disapproving brow. "Were you listening to me, or were you doodling?"
Ginger leaned back in her chair, shifting her hand to cover the drawings she had done while in a daze. "You can do both, you know."
Gordon chuckled, removing his thick-rimmed glasses and scrubbing the lenses with the fabric of his jacket. "You should be listening."
Ginger lowered her gaze in guilt; it came too easily for her. "Sorry. But Jim, you've given me this lecture a hundred times. I know what I'm doing, you know."
"You say that now. But you won't when a prisoner gets loose and hurts you."
"That won't happen," Ginger brightly reassured him, smiling. "I've done it before."
"I want you to be safe," said Gordon. "It's a dangerous place here, Ginger."
She shrugged. "It's no worse in here then it is out there." Getting to her feet, Ginger exited the room and began to stroll down the hall. Ginger wanted to go to art school, drawing and painting seemed to be the only reasonable option left for her career path. Of course, it was risky to dedicate one's life to nothing but art, yet truthfully, Ginger found very little that she could see herself doing. She had graduated university with great credits, and enough education and options to go to become a mechanic or a nurse, if she really wanted to. She had taken as many courses as she thought necessary in High School, and it seemed to be paying off now. But Ginger couldn't help but feel improvident, all her well-attained intelligence and ability set to be be ignored.
Gordon wasn't too keen on her becoming an artist, either. He felt the same as she; all her effort and intelligence put to waste. Ginger didn't know what she was going to do. She was, however, trying to get into an Art School not far from Gotham. She was anticipating the letter she would receive in a few months, telling her whether she was accepted or not.
Until the arrival of that day, she needed to work. She lived with Gordon and his family, but she was merely a guest, and therefore had decided she would make her own money, even if it was at Gordon's work. Not that she did much, mostly she just did whatever needed to be done—like a janitor. She filed things that no one else had the time for, she mopped the floors, she typed e-mails, she sent letters, stuff along those lines. And sometimes, if she was lucky, she could get to keep surveillance of the prison cells for a while. Not that that was the most exciting job in the world, but Ginger liked the feel of authority and the chance to get a closer look at the Gotham crooks.
Absent-mindedly, Ginger admitted herself to Officer Denning, the police officer on duty of the cell Gordon had given her permission to vigil.
"Gordon said you could?" He asked, his scornful eyes narrowing in distrust.
"Yes, you can go ask him, if you think it's necessary."
He straightened himself pridefully, nodded once with a disapproving grunt, and marched off. A few of the employees couldn't see why anyone would allow Ginger to work at the police station. Too much of a dangerous job for such a little girl, they would often say. It annoyed her to be called a little girl, like some insignificant, useless baby.
Ginger began to indolently pace in front of the rusting bars, the three men inside ignoring her presence. She paid them no particular attention, every now and again she would sneak a sideways glance to check if their distraught, idle positions would change.
Ginger didn't usually worry about the prisoners escaping. For one advantage, she was exceptionally strong and agile for a young woman. Most wouldn't expect it from such a delicate looking lady, and that was mainly the key. They would be taken aback. Not that Ginger often had the chance to defend herself in the station. Maybe once. But in a city like Gotham, one should always be prepared. In this dreadful city, people got mugged and raped on their way from work. It was considered lucky if you were only ridded of your purse out on the streets.
Ginger wanted to leave Gotham. It hadn't been her original home; she and her parents had lived in Chicago for the majority of her life, even after her father died when she was eight. Her mom had resided in the same house until her own brutal death. When Ginger, now an orphan, was sent to live with her Godfather, Jim, she'd had to move a ways to Gotham. It was almost ten years now (including her years at University) that she had been a inmate of the Gordon household, and she was forever grateful. They'd offered her comfort and stability after the loss of her mother, and still today they didn't mind in the least that she ate their food and slept in their sheets. But she vowed, from her own guilt and gratitude, to leave them be when she received the return letter from the Art School. Even if she wasn't accepted.
Muffled chattering and ejaculations brought Ginger back from her thoughts. She stopped her marching and peered over the commotion. She couldn't see anything beyond the heads of the crowd, she only noticed Gordon darting over, familiar concern and apprehension wrinkling his face.
She cast a glance back at the grimy men in the cell, then continued forward. "Jillian? What's happening?"
Jillian, one of the officials, replied excitedly "I'm not sure! I'm trying to see over this damn crowd!"
"Everyone back up!" Came the booming, sharp voice of her Godfather. People were gasping, recoiling at his command. "Back up! Go on as normal!"
Hesitantly, the clusters of workers disembodied themselves from the mob.
"Keep going!"
Ginger remained where she was. As people finally began to clear away, she could make out a broad black figure up ahead. It was a man, a long billowing cape trailing after him, and thin cat-like ears on either side of his cowl.
Ginger felt a smile teasing her lips, but it quickly vanished as she spotted something bellow Batman, curled at his feet. It stared drunkenly at Gordon, a monstrous smile creeping in on its deformed red mouth, black eyes locked on him in sick amusement and disfavor. From her distance, it seemed like a skull; cracked white bone, endless sockets, and a booming bloody grin. It was the Joker, Ginger realized with a shudder of horror.
No wonder people had been gasping.
"He refuses to go to Arkham," Batman mumbled to Gordon, just loud enough for Ginger to hear.
The side of the Joker's white cranium was was pressed torpidly to the floor, as if he was trying to eavesdrop on the events in the basement.
"I see that. Okay, I'll get right on it." It was then that Gordon noticed Ginger standing aside, watching inquisitively. "Ginger! Yes… You don't have to, um, stay here. I'll get someone else to keep surveillance."
"Well, I can still keep watch. I mean, it's not—"
"No, no, no, it's alright," he snapped, clearly distressed. It was much to Ginger's impatience that Gordon was cautious of her protection as a mother was to her first toddler. "I will, er, most likely be busy for the rest of the night. Would you mind getting a cab? I'm sorry, I... Just, tell Barbara I might be late tonight."
Batman dipped his head into a friendly nod. Perhaps it was a bit much to say that Ginger and Batman were friends, but she figured it was safe to say that they were well-acquainted. He spoke very little, however he treated her like she was an adult, unlike a lot of people she knew, who prejudiced her as nothing but an ignorant child. She appreciated Batman for it. "Evening, Ginger," his voice was deep, and rough like October leaves scraping along concrete.
"Hi, Batman," she replied, smiling lightly. "Is everything okay?"
His half-hidden lips lifted into a crook smile. "As okay as they can be in Gotham." He beckoned a nod a Gordon, and with a single waving flap of his cape, he had turned, disappearing into the exit.
After a staggering moment of watching in admiration the ghost of Batman's presence, Gordon pressed a hand to Ginger's back, steering her away from the criminal. Ginger reluctantly followed his instructs, and seated behind the main desk with Joan, the frumpy secretary, to organize files.
As she began to thumb through papers, Ginger watched through her lashes as the police officers bounded the Joker in shackles, commanding him to stay silent. His crazed giggles echoed through the loft like an alarm clock as their hands traveled along his limbs in search of weapons. The police could hardly even handle him, she thought miserably.
This was the first time she had seen the malicious Joker in person. She was thankful for her lack of experience with him, but nonetheless it brought up a sort of edgy excitement. Having such a villainous maniac in the station would create great unease and caution. She knew he would escape, as he had from Arkham; it was justly expected of him. But knowing of his unreliability, it would be difficult to prepare for what would become of his actions. Perhaps he would cause harm to someone while doing it, leave there remains in his cell for everyone to find, maybe he would depart stealthily and silently. Or maybe he would just blow up the entire building.
She would just have to wait in discomforting tension and see for herself.
So, there ya have it. And in case any of you were wondering, but perhaps you weren't, I'm gonna add some more background around the death of Ginger's parents, because it's sort of an important detail in Ginger's past.
