Shout-Outs: Thanks to CoconutMigration and my-beloved-monster for reviewing.

Disclaimer:
I do not own Batman or any of its characters. Only Medea is mine.


*And I believe that this may call for a proper introduction and well,
Don't you see, I'm the narrator and this is just the prologue?*

23rd October 2007

I glance around the rec. room while the guard undoes my handcuffs. It's a small, low-ceilinged room, lit by bright fluorescent lamps. The walls and floors are made of cold, bare cement, filling the air with a damp chill. Well, you wouldn't want us crazies to be too comfortable, would you? Two guards are positioned at each entrance, as per usual, though judging by the vacant expressions, I'd say the four of them are not too focused on their job right now. Well, that's just fine. More than fine, in fact. Scattered around the room are various gang members, murderers and rapists, some of them watching the small battered T.V. that sits against the far wall, some playing cards, and one or two actually stretching their minds so far as to read a book. Only some of them glanced up when I entered, but those that didn't soon receive nudges from their friends. The looks I receive aren't scared...just wary. Cautious. Normally, it gratifies me, the way that word of my arrival spreads. But today, I don't want to be avoided. Today, I want to use my reputation to gain something else: information.

"Play nice," my guard grumbles, jostling me roughly as he finishes unlocking the cuffs and pushes my arms to my sides. It's funny really - the way that men who have committed the most heinous of crimes are afraid of me, but these supposedly "good" men are not. Or perhaps they're just better at pretending. One day I'll get down to testing that theory. I look forward to it.

I smile sweetly at him, and watch as he stomps out of the room, slapping one of the door-wardens on the shoulder as he passes. 'Right.' I swing back to face my fellow prisoners, narrowing my eyes as I make several quick calculations. Getting the information I want poses, not so much a problem, as a delicate challenge. I have barely talked to a fellow inmate in all the time I've been here. I allowed them to fret amongst themselves, figuring out who I was, the threat I posed without giving them the slightest hint...well, apart from a few well-placed rumours here are there. And now, lowering myself to start an actual conversation with one of them may well ruin my reputation, rendering all that careful cultivation worthless. So how to pull all this off without breaking something that took a lifetime – not to mention several deaths – to build?

I make one more quick reconnaissance of the room, pick my target, then walk slowly, confidently, over to one of the two men reading, who is sitting in a plastic chair by a plastic table. I slide into the seat opposite him, noting with pleasure the way he shuffles uncomfortably in his seat. He's been singled out by the daughter of one of the sickest murderers ever to walk the streets of Gotham, and a double murderess herself. I don't blame him if he's nervous. I sit quietly, allowing the silence to build, watching him read, aware that his eyes are spending less and less time reading, and more and more flicking anxiously from the book to my face. Apparently what he sees there only serves to make him more uneasy, because he fidgets again, coughing slightly.

I don't know his name, or recognize his face, but then, that isn't saying much. Even if I did make the effort to communicate with anyone here besides my guards and doctor, this man has a face that would be easily overlooked or forgotten. His features are bland, of the sort that fade into the background, his hair short, his eyes a nondescript brown. His face is lined, but I guess he's actually quite young; and that's going from the way I can feel his leg trembling hyperactively under the table. Then again, maybe it's just nerves. All in all, a person you would never suspect of being involved in criminal behaviour. From that assumption, you would point out that he hardly looks like the type of person to know the identity of a clearly lunatic clown – and by doing so you would reveal your utter lack of understanding of the criminal classes. This man is a servant, an obsequious slave, one of those that follow orders and kiss ass to earn the protection of the head guys, because they know they'd be slaughtered in an instant without it. And while they're scurrying around, bowing and scraping before their masters, these small, mousy, pathetic men learn things. Important things. A man like this will be far easier to pump for information than any of the thickset, muscular guys that you, in your foolish naivety, would have targeted. So, with your education completed, we can continue. I cock my head and study my new best friend. I wonder what he's in here for. Probably threatened some poor innocent civilians, got caught and was subsequently diagnosed with schizophrenia or multiple personality disorder. Not to mention some kind of anxiety problem, going from the frankly revolting layer of sweat that is shining on his forehead. Hiding my disgust, I take a breath, and smile.

"Hello," I murmur quietly, pitching my voice lower than normal and leaning forward slightly to meet his eyes. My tone is pleasant, yet the sound of it makes him squirm fearfully, as though my simple one word greeting is a promise of violence. Which, really it is, though it wouldn't sound like it to you. Because that's the thing; it's all about subtlety. I drum an odd uneven rhythm on the table top with the tip of my finger. "My name's Medea Craven. What's yours?"

The man flinches, almost causing me to laugh with derision - I hold it back though, keeping my expression politely curious. Inside, I'm delighted: 'Jumping at shadows?' I croon silently, 'Frightened of little old me?' Yes, I made a good choice. I can tell from my friend's anxious expression, that he is clearly extremely sensitive to the balance of power in a room: he knows that I have him beaten, and now it's only a question of what I want to know.

As the man is clearly too nervous to reply, I smile softly and continue, "That's alright, don't worry. I wonder if you could help me." For the first time he properly meets my gaze, an assessing look flitting briefly over his pathetic little face. He's trying to guess what I might want, and how dangerous I'll become if he refuses. I could simply tell him and put him out of his anxious misery...but I think I'll have some fun with him first. I let the smile slowly slide off of my face, leaving my expression blank. "That is, unless you have better things to do...other friends to take care of." This time, there is far more than a suggestion of a threat in my voice; impatience and anger drip from every word.

My victim trembles, "No, of course not. What do you need?"

I relax, and bring my casual smile back. "Would you happen to know anything about a crazy who dresses like a clown? Oh, and don't worry, it's okay if you don't." I reach out and pat his arm mildly; once again, he reacts as if I had hit him. Sighing internally, I resist the urge to actually punch him – his cowering fear is very quickly becoming tiresome.

Apparently though, it isn't just me that's scaring him now. He looks at me with terrified disbelief, "Do you mean the Joker?"

I raise my eyebrows, my expression mildly surprised, "I don't know. Do I?" He gets the message, and quickly elaborates, "Skinny guy. Long-ish green hair." I betray nothing, keeping my expression deadpan. "Scars and face-paint?" He squeaks, clearly desperate for me to recognize the description and stop staring at him. I smile pleasantly, as if receiving some good news, "Yes, that's him."

'The Joker,' I muse, 'clearly a reference to the facepaint...or perhaps the facepaint is a reference to the name...or maybe he just chose them both on a whim.'

"Why do you want to know?" My new friend asks nervously, breaking into my thoughts, "That guy's a complete nut-job, lady. I hear he's always babbling on about stuff that doesn't make sense, laughing while he kills people. Even the other psychos avoid him. You should be glad you're in here away from him."

My smile becomes sickeningly sweet, and I get to my feet. "Too late. He's our newest inmate. Thank you for your help." I walk to the door and request to be escorted back to my cell, still enjoying the look of panic that flashed over my little friend's face when I told him the Joker's back in town.


That night, I am plagued by nightmares that are truly memories. My life is paraded before my sleeping eyes, an overflowing of blood and violence and death. I dream about my father. A montage of snapshot moments of excruciating detail of the man who shaped my life fills my dreams; I wake in the early morning, sweat beading on my forehead, my eyes staring blindly into the darkness. Just a moment ago, I was in a bright warm room, surrounded by lights...candles...

Birthday candles. It's my sixth birthday. My cousin Andy was here earlier, but her mom took her home awhile ago. Her daddy never comes to visit. I don't know why, but at six years old (as of that morning), it doesn't really bother me much. Now it's just me and mommy and daddy. I'm sitting at the small, crappy plastic table that seems to fill the whole of our small, crappy kitchen, with a beautifully iced birthday cake in front of me. I wasn't allowed in the kitchen all day. Mommy was hiding it, to keep it as a surprise. The dim pretty glow of the six chipped and battered candles provides a shocking counterpoint to the peeling table top, complete with coffee stains. But of course, as a child, the relative poverty that surrounds me doesn't mean much. My parents are opposite me, both of them smiling. Daddy stands behind Mommy's chair, with his hands on her shoulders, loose, flat, gentle.

Sometimes they're not like that though. Sometimes those hands close in tight, angry fists, and I feel like I'm stuck in a bad dream because I can't make him stop and Mommy always cries, and sometimes I cry, and then those hard, rough hands, so strong and so hurtful, turn upon me...but they're not like that now. Now, Mommy is smiling, smiling because she
(hates)
loves him, and that's good, because it's just love and not
(fear)
anything else. And at six years old, I laugh a little, because I'm happy that my parents love each other.

At the sound of my laugh, their smiles grow even brighter, and distantly, I hear my father say, "Go on Meds, open it." I look down at my lap, in which sits a large box, its contents just waiting to be discovered. It is wrapped in newspaper, dingy, yellow and peeling, because we are poor, because this is Gotham City...but the pretty blue ribbon around it makes it beautiful. I undo the bow carefully, and lay it aside, before starting eagerly on the wrapping paper. My parents laugh again as I rip it; it tears so easily in my eager hands that I'm down to the box itself in seconds. Trembling with excitement, I pull the lid off...and jerk back, shrieking in fear.

I shake my head slightly, trying to control my breathing. Just a dream, I know it was just a dream, because I can remember perfectly well what was inside that box. A pair of shoes. Pretty shoes, unlike any I'd seen, apart from in a film I watched once when I visited Cousin Andy's house. Nothing terrifying, nothing at all fear-inducing. Shoes.

Somehow, I soothe myself back into a state of rest – it's not exactly sleep, but it's much better than pacing the walls of my cell like a trapped animal, nothing but a form of amusement for the guards watching the security camera footage. I lie there, not asleep, not awake, and definitely not thinking about anything, until a guard comes to wake me up. He bangs on the door. My head snaps around to the source of the sound and

I'm nine years old. I'm standing with my back against the front door, a coat over my pyjamas. My mommy told me to put it on. It's been three years since that beautiful birthday cake, and six months since the pretty purple shoes my parents gave me more or less fell apart. And since then, everything has been getting worse. I'm older than I was, but even now, I didn't grasp exactly what it meant when mom told me that daddy had lost his job. Now I understand. It's watching my father grow more and more volatile, like an angry bear, ready to lash out at anything. It's watching my mother's eyes grow duller and duller, lost behind unkempt hair and dark purple shadows. And it's watching my parents fightin at two in the morning, flinching at each blow as though it was me who was struck. The sound of my father's palm on her cheek is deafening, a gunshot in the cramped hallway. I can feel my shoulders shaking, and realise I'm crying. 'Stupid little baby,' my mind scolds harshly, 'stop that.' But I know I can't. Now mom is backing towards me, one hand up to ward off his slaps and punches, the other stretched out behind her and searching for my shoulder. I want to reach out to grab her hand but fear drawing attention to myself. If he turns his fists on me, there'll be nothing I can do to stop him. Still, I cower into mom as she grabs me, frightened of the raw emotions on her face, not to mention the already darkening bruises, the blood rolling from one nostril... "I'm leaving," she screams at him, "I'm getting out of here and I'm taking Medea with me! I've h-had enough!"

My father's face is vicious, brutal, his heavy breathing filling the hall in the echoing silence of my mother's shout. Abruptly, I want to know where my father is – the father that used to tuck me in at night, who once ate so much cotton candy with me that we both felt ill, the one that taught me to read. Where is he? Because surely this cannot be him. This ravening
(monster)
bear of a man cannot be my father. But underneath that is the far more terrible truth, that this man was always there, was always hiding within my father. That doesn't make any of my happy memories with my father less real...but the monster was always underneath, lurking, waiting to tear his way free. "You get right back here now," he says, raising one hand to his forehead. Somehow, my mom managed to strike a blow of her own, raking her fingernails blindly across his face. The sight of his blood on his fingertips only seems to enrage him further, "Right now or-"

"No," my mother sobs, "no, I won't." Her hand leaves my shoulder as she snatches wildly at the door handle. The door seems to swing open so slowly. It's open just wide enough for me to slip through – but it only gets that far before he digs his fingers into her hair with a bellow of rage. My mother is snatched away from me before I can blink, in a screaming, struggling bundle, her hand reaching desperately for mine. "Run, Meds," she whispers suddenly, and for some reason, by some magic, that whisper carries across the hall, over his yells, all the way to me with perfect clarity, "Run now." And God help me, I did. I ran even as I heard her screams tapering off to nothing, sprinting down the corridor, taking the stairs three at a time, realising for the first time that daddy was crazy. I burst out onto the cold, dirty streets of Gotham, slipped on the wet pavement and went down on one knee, tearing a hole in my already battered jeans. I'm up on my feet within a minute, and I dive off down the block, dodging passersby with unwitting grace. A couple of them look at me with curiosity – but this is Gotham, and this is the Narrows. Here curiosity not only killed the cat, it skinned it and ate it too - raw. So they look away, feigning disinterest. Personally I wonder if maybe someone would have helped me...if we had been anywhere else. When I allow myself time to catch my breath, pressed up against an alley wall, that thought returns to my nine year old mind, that traitorous thought that can't possibly be true...and yet undeniably is. 'Daddy's mad.' And close behind that earth-shattering revelation comes a second, 'He killed mommy. He killed her and he's crazy.' The tears burn.

The guard pushes my door open and blinks at the sight of me staring emptily over his shoulder and into the past. I feel a small shiver run the length of my body, and wordlessly lift my arms, waiting for the handcuffs. They're tighter than normal, painful even. I ignore it. The guard grabs me roughly and gives me a not-so-gentle push through the door that makes me stumble. I right myself without comment. He gives a small snort of laughter. I remain silent, even when he whispers sarcastically to a passing friend that: "Arkham's Princess is having one of her bad days." I don't know this guard very well. He's relatively new. His breathing irks me – a loud harsh rush, in through the nose and out through the mouth in a stale cloud that brushes the back of my neck. The slight whistling sound he makes every time he inhales cause another stab of annoyance. He'll give me a headache if he keeps this up. Even as I think it, he lets out a gush of air near my ear, this one touched with a sandpapery rasp. My fingers twitch. I don't think I've ever wanted to choke someone so much. We reach the cafeteria. Sloppy, non-descript oatmeal full of suspicious lumps. With my tied hands I hold out my bowl for a portion. The hulking idiot on kitchen-lady duty today slops a ladle-full in, splattering my hand with a few drops. An excellent excuse to shake up the thug, but today, I can't summon the energy to lift my head and stare him down. I move along quietly. Phantom images from my dream chase across my mind, blurring out the dull gray walls of this place. They get brighter, and bolder as I make my way across the room. I sit down and

I'm huddled inside a large-ish crate, eyeing the world as it passes by with wary, watchful eyes. A large, laughing group of college students wander past, cans of beer in hand. I study them, eyes skipping across relatively well-dressed frames, looking for anything worth stealing. I've been on the streets for nearly a year now, and I'm no longer just a frightened little girl scrounging for food, running from shadows, cowering at footsteps.

When I first discovered, once the adrenaline of my desperate flight had faded, that I had no idea where I was going to go, I panicked. My first thought, of course, was to go to Cousin Andy's. But, being a nine year old girl living in the worst part of her city, I had no idea how to get there. Even if my dad hadn't always taken care of me, my mom had, and she would no more let me traverse the Narrows on my own than she would have given me alcohol. I could have gone to the police, and several times, I came close. But every time I did, I chickened out. What if they asked me about daddy? What if they found him and put him in prison? Secretly, a part of myself considered this possibility with relief, even gratitude – and that, more than anything is what convinced me not to seek protection from Gotham P.D. What kind of terrible person would I be if I not only thought about letting the police take my daddy away, but thought about it with relief?

So, I stayed where I was. I scavenged, I hid, I ran when people came too close. I found this crate, my small island of protection in my third month, and hid there for three days. Eventually a need for food tempted me out. I committed my first crime; a small thing. I stole a bun from a hot-dog stand when the vendor was looking the other way. It wasn't particularly nutritious: cheap, unnaturally white bread that tore far too easily in my hands. I can't say I cared. After nearly three months of dumpster diving, it tasted amazing. It was a small piece of heaven in
(hell)
this terrible place. And of course, once I knew I could steal...everything became easier. I could find better food, not always, but sometimes, enough food to keep me alive, at least. That box, that crate, barely big enough to hold me, became my home, my base, whatever the hell you want to call it. I pushed it further into the shadows of the alley wall, lined it with scraps of coats and blankets I found, even went so far as to drape an old tarpaulin over it. This not only reduced the draught, but also camouflaged my box better than ever. And now, here I sit, listening to the people passing by outside, peering out past the edges of my protective cover, and look for things to steal.

"Why, hello again, doll-face." I open my eyes to see the Joker – and am delighted to find even more to interest me. The greasepaint is gone, apparently too much for the guards, revealing a boyishly handsome face: bright fair hair, tanned skin, rich brown eyes. A face you could pass on the street without a second glance – or perhaps with one quick peek over your shoulder, just to appreciate its appeal. Apart from the scars. It might be those twisted ropes of ruined skin that give him that air of twitchy grunginess, but studying him, I believe it's mostly just him. The way he moves his mouth, the way his still slightly paint-smudged hand restlessly plucks at his trouser leg, the way his eyes skitter around the room, all give off a constant feeling of danger. It's as if he holds a permanent sign above his head: 'I could hurt you. And I'd laugh while I do it.' He's being walked across the room, presumably to be taken back to his cell, or maybe for his first session with one of the doctors. He's paused, and is leaning towards me. His gaze burns into my skin, sharp and intent. As I stare up at him, he licks his lips, a quick, darting motion, uncomfortably reptilian. Once again, I feel heat spring up beneath the surface of my skin, and instantly my clothes are uncomfortable, too close, too constrictive. I'm sweltering.

"Get moving, freak," his guard says, dragging him away from me. I turn my head to follow him, and after only a moment's hesitation, call out, "Hello again, Joker." My voice carries clearly across the room, and instantly, conversation stops, to be replaced by a fearful and disbelieving silence. I smile as I turn back to my oatmeal, enjoying the hasty murmurs that spring up as soon as the Joker leaves the room.

As if in accordance with my suddenly improved mood, the sun burns through the cover of smog and mist that cloaks Gotham city, meaning that today, recreational activities will be held outside in the yard. Excellent – I can look forward to seeing the weaker inmates being bullied into exceptionally violent games of tag. Clearly, the shrinks have been encouraging us to get in touch with our inner child. I smile, remembering how much I love sunny days.

The yard is full of bright, warm light – and pallid, sun-starved inmates of course. It's almost comical when we first emerge, the sudden change of light catching us off guard. I survey my fellow prisoners, and once relieved of my handcuffs, saunter calmly between the rows of men and stretch out on the one bench in the yard. It has been my place ever since I came here, and it is the one place I am guaranteed peace and quiet; none of the others have so much as glanced over since I claimed it.

Yawning lazily, I place my hands behind me, lean back and tilt my head, enjoying the sunshine. Across the yard I can hear that one of the other inmates – one of the bigger ones judging by his deep, troll-like voice – is shouting. His words are unclear, hazy in my relaxed state. I close my eyes. More shouting, dim, and distant and

Sharp in my ear, his voice slurred by alcohol, "For God's sake, you little bitch, put the knife down!" The man's expression is desperate, furious, terrified, his voice shaking as he screams at me, trying to get control of things, get control of me. As I watch him, I gleefully realise that he's not used to the helplessness he's now feeling. That was always what I was supposed to feel. I doubt he's ever experienced a situation in which he hasn't had the upper hand, or at least been able to see a way to get there. But now, he's lost; stuck between the flashing blade of a knife and the dirty wall of this disgusting little apartment. Our daughter
(my daughter)
isn't here. I took her to my cousin's. Andy dotes on her, after all. She makes a much better mother than I. Andy being short for Andromeda – a love of Greek mythology is the only thing that my father and his brother, my uncle, shared. It suits her; she's pale and pretty and perfect. Then again, my name suits me. Anyway. Back to my boyfriend: trapped. "Henry, Henry, Henry," I coo, flipping the kitchen knife in my hand. It catches the dim light of the single, uncovered bulb hanging from the ceiling, glinting menacingly. "It's not going to do you any good to shout. You knocked me up, and now I'm not good enough for you? I'm afraid that just won't do." I gesture flippantly over his shoulder. Because technically, there is something else between my rat of a boyfriend and the apartment wall. A woman, petite, gorgeous, blonde, no more than eighteen. He holds one arm out towards me, and crushes her slim frame against himself with the other. I feel the urge to laugh, and give in to it, letting my voice bounce off the walls, "Do you know how
pathetic you look?" I ask, holding in the giggles, "Trying to protect her like that? As if you were some storybook hero?"

"Medea..."

"Shut up!" I snap, and for a moment, I nearly step forward and ram the knife into him then and there. He flinches, cowering even further against the wall. Then I stop. Relax. Smile. "Be quiet now. If you make me angry, I'll kill you faster, and that's not what I want to do."

The woman, girl really, makes a little noise half-way between a sob and a squeak, and tugs at Henry's arm. I turn my blade on her, "Please stop that revolting whimpering noise or I'll cut out your tongue." She stops. I take a deep breath and force my smile wider, "So. Who's first?"

I snap my eyes open, abruptly unsettled. So far my flashes of memory had been following more-or-less chronological order, following the course my dream had taken. Why the sudden skip? I went from being nine years old to twenty two, with a two year old daughter and a cheating boyfriend. For a normal person, perhaps the more worrying thing would be that I am dropping in and out of the past and not taking any notice. But trust me, it's something I've gotten used to. I stare up at the low, ugly wall of the asylum, and suddenly I would very much like to blow something up. Preferably the asylum itself. Preferably with all of the guards and most of the inmates still inside it. God I need a drink.