Author's note: Mwahaha! The master of crossover fics from the real world has returned! No, really. I'm starting another story. Today, we're going to delve into the world of ::drum roll plays for three seconds, then stops:: The Justice League! It'll start out with Batman, but I'll include the others in due time. Anyway, you all basically know the plot by now. ::silence:: Don't tell me. You haven't read the other fics?! How could you? ::random reader comes up in cyberspace, shows author how they click on only one of her stories:: Oh, like that. Well, as long as you have a good excuse. On to yet another crossover! Huzzah!

What Happens When Murphy's Law Is Against You

            "Dun da da duuuuum! Dun daaaaaa!" I sang, improvising the Justice League theme. Another episode had just finished on Cartoon Network, but I was still imagining that I was right there with them. I jumped off the couch onto the carpet and held up my hand to my face like a microphone. "Dun da da duuuuum! Dun daaaaaa!"

            My father laughed at my antics from where he was sitting in our recliner, reading the newspaper.

            "I think it's time for our Junior Justice League Member to get to bed, Marissa," he reprimanded, going into what I like to call 'parental mode.'

            "Awww, but Dad!" I whined, putting my hand on top of the TV, "It's my life force!"

            "Listen to your father, Marissa. Don't you have a history test tomorrow?" scolded my mother, coming down from upstairs where she had just finished her shower.

            I groaned.

            "That's right; why did you have to remind me?"

            They both smiled.

            "Marissa, you have to get people to respect you with the grades you get, because I doubt they'll do that with the clothes you wear."

            I sighed. Ever since I had hit thirteen one year ago, I had started wearing punkish clothes that my parents didn't approve of. Right then, I had on low riding green camouflage cargo pants and a black tank top that said in white block letters, 'Hating you makes me feel all warm inside.' It ended just above my belly button. In addition, it showed off some cleavage that I liked having at my age. The girls at junior high (eighth grade, which I had just entered that year) were jealous of that and my creamy white skin tone that fit my 5'5' frame perfectly. All they had were pasty white complexions that just showed they needed to get out in the sun more.

            "Dad, we've been over this before. It's called free expression. It's not like I'm going out and getting drunk or anything."

            "I know honey. I just don't want you drawing unwanted attention."

            "I'm not! If guys even look at me the wrong way, I––" I was cut off, because lightning had just struck our house. While I was touching the TV. While it was still on. The last thing I saw was the ceiling as I passed out on our living room floor. (A/n: My characters tend to pass out a lot, don't they? Maybe they have narcolepsy . . . ^_^')

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           When I woke from unconsciousness, the first thing I saw was my mom's worried face. My mother noticed before my father.

            "Marissa! George, come here! She woke up!"

            She swooped down to check on me as my father rushed in from the kitchen, where I could tell he had been drinking coffee for several hours. He does that when he's worried or anxious about something.

            "Marissa, do you feel faint? Has anything changed? A headache?"

            I pushed them both away as I sat up.

            "I'm fine.  I'm fine. No headache, no nothing. Though I will have difficulty breathing if you don't give me some space."

            They chuckled and my mother replied,

            "Well, at least we know you're back. You're absolutely sure you're okay?"

            "I'm fine, now can I at least get something to eat before bed?"

            "Sure, of course Marissa," replied my father. I grinned at him and headed off into the kitchen. Soon I returned with a small, glass bowl of vanilla ice cream and saw then watching the news, something about a bank heist. Not caring much, I went to kiss them goodnight and go up to my room when something on TV caught my eye. Batman.

            The reporter seemed not to care that he was describing a fictional character's supposed capture of The Joker, a villain who was also fictional. Looking at my parents, I realized they didn't really care either. I joked around, saying,

            "Guess Batman and Joker aren't the best of friends, eh?"

            My mother smiled, looking up at me from the screen, and replied,

            "Nope, they've been rivals since before you were born, here in Gotham. Fourteen plus years, you'd think one of them would've gone to see a shrink."

            I chuckled weakly, and headed up to my room, hoping it was still the same. To my immense relief, nothing much was changed. All that was gone were posters of different singers from magazines I had picked up. I rushed over to the window, only to turn a pale chalk white at the sight that I beheld.

            As my delirious (this is how I thought of them) parents had afore mentioned, we lived in Gotham. Batman's Gotham. Crap, I thought, thinking I had gone crazy. There were no signs of the city that I grew up in, a small town outside of the southern border of Idaho, with less than four-hundred people. Okay, I told myself, there has to be a logical explanation for this. Doesn't there? I mean, fictional worlds don't just become real, right? Right. So, the only other explanations would be that I've either gone crazy, or this is all a dream I'll wake up from eventually. I'll go with the second, since it's much easier to believe.

            Convincing myself that I would awake from this dream sometime in the near future, I settled in for the night, which was kind of ironic, sleeping while you're sleeping. But that awakening did not come.

            I waited for weeks. Months. Almost a year had passed by the time I figured out I wasn't going to wake up. By that time, I had gotten a part-time job since obviously, Gotham didn't care whether you were sixteen with a work permit or not, just so long as you can do the work. I was still trying to convince myself that I had been put in a coma by the electric shock of the television while walking home from the night shift at a deli about three blocks from my 'house.' Which, need I remind you, is not the smartest thing to do when you 'live' in a city that has an extremely high crime rate and it is eleven-thirty at night.

            Without warning, a thug jumped out in front of me from an alleyway that I hadn't noticed before. He was wearing a worn leather vest on top of a tattered white wife-beater, showing off a well developed six-pack. Faded blue jeans adorned his muscled legs and he grinned at me, his sickly yellow teeth clashing horribly with the dark skin tone that covered his whole body.

            "Got any money, sweetheart?"

            I gnashed my own teeth, reminding myself that provoking a man who looked like he took steroids from birth was not a good idea.

            "If I give you all my money, will you refrain from harming me?"

            "Yeah, I'll do that, and I won't hurt ya none neither."

            I resisted the urge to roll my eyes, but dug into the backpack that I carried with me for my last week's paycheck. Then, on a whim, I started to run the opposite way, back toward the deli. If I was lucky, the manager would still be there, closing up. Unfortunately for me, thugs never travel alone. This meant that there was another guy in back of me, looking very much like the first, except for his much paler skin tone.

            "Y-you said you wouldn't hurt me."

            Thug One laughed behind me as I eyed Thug Two.

            "Well, I don' think I got my money, now do I hon? Now, fork it over or me and my bud might have t' get violent."

            After that statement, I did possibly the stupidest thing I could have done at the moment. I ran.

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