From what I've learned so far in my twenty-four years of living, life can be either good for people or downright shit.

I know this, because I'm a child of a broken home. Scratch that, I'm a child of a home that was ransacked, wrecked, burned—blah, blah, blah, you name it. Figuratively and somewhat literally. Guess you can't expect anything less when your mom marries and procreates with the arms dealer of then-crimelord Luigi Maroni, father of the most recent organized crime head Salvatore.

Life was good for us, for a while.

I was doing well in a good school, we lived in a relatively well-off neighborhood, we ate well and plenty, Mom and Dad went out on expensive dates—those were the nights I loved: when I'd be allowed to help Mom pick out an outfit, check her hair and makeup for her, fasten her necklace for her when she couldn't rea—I digress. In short: money was present and flowing. Everyone was happy.

Or, rather, we were happy. My dad's boss and colleagues? Not so much.

Unbeknownst to Mom, Dad had started a little project of his own on the side: rather than just selling weapons he imported from elsewhere, he was now in the habit of building them, sourcing the individual parts from the cheapest dealers he could find and putting them together like a dangerous Happy Meal toy.

Somewhere, in the deep recesses of my mind, I knew this. Vague memories of sitting on his 'office' floor (a converted garage/basement at best), watching him draw blueprints and testing out the odd mechanism here and there, pop up at the forefront of my mind every so often, like an unwanted reminder of updating your computer's operating system. Given that I was only nine at the time, I cut myself some slack.

How was I to know Dad wasn't selling these only to the Italians? Yeah, for whatever reason, he'd decided on going public, to hell with exclusivity and personal bonds, meaning that anyone, literally anyone who knew where to find him, was able to bid and purchase.

The Italians did not appreciate this.

No wonder. It read as dissatisfaction and boredom in his career with them, it read as a betrayal of La Familia or whatever they liked to call themselves, it read as power-hungry: look, it just didn't read well. I mean, any half-wit could have told me that, let alone my dad.

Alas, he didn't realize. He probably thought he'd been secretive enough in only telling a few people, even when one of those confidantes had been a member of the rival organized crime family, the Falcones. In retrospect, even I can see what's coming here: I can see the clouds brewing up a storm, I can see the sharks looming in the depths below as they await that first droplet of blood. I can see with acute clarity my father for the fool he was.

In this case, that first droplet of blood came when a Maroni bodyguard, following on a tip, spotted my father out with Falcone's second-in-command nine days before my tenth birthday.

Maroni's men arrived at our house six days before my tenth birthday.

It was during the day, must have been close to 4 pm as I remember watching my mom prepare my daily snack of apple 'soldiers' and peanut butter when the doorbell rang. I remember my father wasn't home—I've since learned he was out dealing his homemade creations—and so when I heard a male voice, I remember hoping it to be him, that he'd come home early as a surprise.

This, was when life got shit.

I remember there were around four men in black: two came in with guns already drawn, one was sliding on a pair of knuckledusters, and the other just strolled in with a smile. There was a conversation, a short one, but I don't remember it. I just remember three taking my mom into the living room and the smiling one, a fat fuck of a sleaze bursting out his shirt, grabbing my chubby little arm and dragging me back to the kitchen, whereupon he spotted the sharp chef's knife glinting amongst browning apple core and grabbed it with such deliberate slowness I knew he was doing it to taunt me.

I remember being pretty hysterical by then, screaming for my mom to come back as my arms flailed and lashed out at him before he harshly yanked them behind my back and threatened to slice my eyelids off and force-feed them to me if I so much as made another move or sound. I remember obeying him as he shut the door ever-so-gently behind him and the shrieks started. There's maybe a few more moments of bloodcurdling screams and gurgles I can remember before it gets difficult to breathe, before the edges of my vision blacken, before I topple to the cold linoleum kitchen floor.

I don't know when Maroni's men left, I don't know when they decided to leave my mother to bleed out, I don't know when the cops arrived because my next memory is that of being restrained on a gurney in a hospital I never got told the name of.

Turns out Dad wasn't going to be waiting for me back at home either: the Falcones had interrupted his little deal, beaten him within an inch of his life, then sold him out, leaving him a bloody mess for Gotham's Finest to find and apprehend. Three weeks before his trial date, he was found dead under suspicious circumstances in his solitary jail cell.

Life after that remained shit.

I became the poster girl for child-of-the-system: I was passed around foster families like an illicit drug, as it seemed like no one wanted to be found as the one keeping me. Most couldn't cope with my nightmares—who doesn't like a kid screaming from the hours of 11 pm to 5 am?—so it took a bit of time before someone finally wanted me.

Sophie was a thirty-four-year-old single woman, desperate to be a mom but a) single and, honestly, not ready to mingle, and b) a bit too overweight for the chance of fertilization. She had the same ash blonde hair my mom had and similar grey eyes, which made me like her almost instantly. She wore big sunglasses and almost never any makeup. She dressed in clothing that was far too big for her, regardless of weight, and always carried a Hershey bar in her bag in case of emergencies (see: falling off your scooter and grazing your knee, biting your lip whilst eating, not being first in line to ride the immobile airplane at Walmart, tearing up at the sudden thought that your parents were no longer able to answer your phone calls when you tried as they were no longer in Gotham or on Earth). She was kind, and loving, and patient, and devoted—and the greatest thing to happen to me after that bad day.

As the favorite poem of Ponyboy from The Outsiders goes, however, nothing gold can stay.

As I grew up, my repressed fears, anxieties, and characteristics all started seeping out at once, ever-present in my waking life, and, in an effort to stifle them once more, I somehow ended up involved in my high school's drug scene. I say that like I didn't seek it out—I totally did.

In the beginning, it was mostly downers: anything which made me sleepy or at least foggy enough so that I could make it through the day without crying, or feeling my skin crawl and stomach turn anytime the doorbell rang, or lashing out at someone, or lashing out at myself. As time progressed and downers lost their edge, I ended up throwing some uppers in there as well, y'know, mostly to shake things up, break up the monotony. I wanted to see what happened.

Well, three stints in Arkham's juvenile unit is what happened.

I mean, it was the Arkham before that weirdo with the potato sack fetish ruled the roost, and it was the juvenile ward after all, so it was nowhere near as inhospitable and mad as the adult section is now. I was misdiagnosed twice—first with bipolar disorder, the second time with an antisocial personality disorder (...maybe they've never had a handle on that place)—but the third time, they got it right, I think.

I was diagnosed with depression and post-traumatic stress disorder, which is a bit obvious now that I repeat it again. How I was diagnosed with the other two, I don't really know, the doctors were probably still in med school and looking to impress whichever higher-up was on that day. Anyways, now I know that I should have gone for the uppers instead of the downers that dreary day when I was fourteen. Kidding.

By the time I was allowed to leave Arkham I was eighteen, and Sophie's heart had well and truly been broken. She'd visited mostly every day for the first stint, twice a week during the second, and as the third stint stretched on her weekly visits became biweekly, then monthly, then they just... stopped. I shouldn't have been surprised: she'd been bringing my belongings to the hospital in dribs and drabs and had stopped taking my dirty clothes home. When I left, I hadn't seen her in four months and seventeen days; I'd have been out sooner than that, but her abandonment set my progress back a bit.

I didn't return to her. I didn't want to hurt her again and, bluntly put, I didn't want to get hurt again.

I applied for welfare and a job—strongly recommended by my therapist; surprisingly got both—and, after a few months of staying in hostels in and around the Narrows, finding my feet in both new adult life and work, I was finally able to put down a small deposit to rent a tiny one-bed, one-bath, one kitchen-dining-living room apartment located on the other side of the Narrows in Downtown Gotham, on the corner of Jamaica Street and Scott Blvd. Blackgate Penitentiary and Gotham PD's Major Crimes Unit are no less than ten blocks away—the real selling point, not its affordability.

Six years on, life is... getting better.

The Joker's been in Arkham for over a year now, Crane's... somewhere but not actively terrorizing Gotham, and the Batman disappeared into the dark as abruptly as he came into the light. They had another of those televised funerals, this time for Harvey Dent, which was the first time I'd cried since, uh, the day the Joker induced mass hysteria as he called upon the city to murder the guy who thought he knew Batman. I tend to cry a lot. Anyways, after the funeral, there had been talk of law enforcement and politicians wanting to pass some sort of organized crime act in Harvey's name, but us, the citizens, aren't frequently kept in their loop so I couldn't tell you if it was shelved or put on the schedule.

I'm still in the same place with a few minor changes. I have a second job—not only am I waiting tables in a diner during the day, but I'm also now tending bar near the Narrows Bridge until the early hours in some shitty, sketchy dive bar one of the diner patrons owns; I got my GED and driving license, though I still don't have a car (no parking space, no money); and I seem to have inherited the hobby of creating my little weapons.

It's not as bad as it sounds. I'll explain:

One day, bored out of my mind from revising for the GED exam, I carried out my normal form of procrastination: going through everything I've ever owned and kept. Hidden amongst old drawings in what is definitely a metal toolbox but what I remember using as a lunchbox, I found four of my dad's old blueprints. One of some weird Swiss Army knife hybrid, the other of a pistol, and the remaining two of, well, bombs. I have no recollection whatsoever of ever stashing them away, and so I believe my dad must have known more than he let on—though I'm not sure whether he hid them away for himself to retrieve later, or for me. I try not to think about what either option might mean.

I didn't touch them for months, either. Any time even so much as my thoughts drifted near them, I'd feel huge pangs of guilt, like wasps thrumming my insides. I couldn't do that to my mother. She suffered in the most gruesome way imaginable for me to pick up where my dad left off? No, I couldn't do that to her. I didn't want to do that to her. I have never been able to forgive my dad for the situation he put us in, the danger he led us into, the suffering he put my mom through, and the turmoil that came after it.

But, unfortunately, I'm still his daughter.

Months later, on one of my days off, I could barely feel the guilt for the temptation.

It's not like I've completely taken up my dad's line of work—I've not been looking for parts like he did, I've not been doing dodgy deals down some dark alley with a stranger, I've not been sourcing out other options or importing anything. I've only been making a few small things for me and with materials I bought legally. And nothing I do and no-one I know actually warrant the use of a bomb so it's fine. It's just sort of comforting to have some sort of protection with me that I know... personally.

...It's really not as bad as it sounds.

As of right now? It's 02:26 on a Friday and I've just finished my last shift of the week.

As luck would have it, I've managed to get all of Friday off in both jobs, and I don't start at the diner until 4 pm on Saturday. So, I've got a nice little break coming.

It's warm and raining lightly as I step outside Sugar's, the dive bar where I serve wannabe gangsters, suspicious beat cops, and young girls whose mothers ought to be scolded, though the pavement is still fairly dry. The rain must have just started. Habitually, I flip my hood up, zip my baby pink windbreaker all the way to my chin, and tuck my messy ponytail into my hood. I'm not much a fan of rain.

The streets are quiet, all the late-night customers are either still getting their money's worth or have slunk home, and I find the few blocks walk to the bus stop on Badger and Birch almost peaceful if it weren't for the rain.

I'm there with only three minutes to spare, or so the little television thing says, so I take that time to fork out the cash I need for a single ticket. Whatever possessed me to walk to the bar from the diner earlier has since left my body and I'm a bit too excited by the prospect of having a seat on the bus.

In the silence, I hear the telltale signs of wheels on wet tar and a glance up the road confirms to me that I'll be getting to sit down sooner than I thought. The bus pulls over just ahead of the stop and I have to jump onto the platform to avoid stepping in the forming puddles. The driver—male, around mid-40s, balding, frowning—doesn't say anything as I ask for a single ticket to Jamaica Street, and I wonder briefly if he's even listening to me. Though, to be honest, he's probably heard so many variations of that question he could fill in the blanks in his sleep, so I don't mind.

The bus is empty except for two nurses sat together in the front row. I sit down in the third—not too close but also not too far—just as the bus takes off, and relief and exhaustion wash over me in tandem, my limbs suddenly heavy and head faintly throbbing. The bus' engine is humming a comforting lullaby and the bright overhead lights make my eyes burn, so I shut them. I won't fall asleep.

Well, I do.

Only for a couple minutes, but even the thought of falling asleep on public transport is enough to jolt me awake, and I read on the little television thingy—seriously, what are those called?—that the next stop is Trillium Park on Rory Street.

Huh?

I lean forward and, trying my best not to be creepy, I call out to the nurses ahead of me.

"Hey," my voice comes out deep and croaky (that's working in a bar for you) and I notice one of them stiffens. Oh, come on. You saw me get on, I'm just a girl.

"Hey!" I try again, voice back to normal. The one in the aisle seat turns around finally and simply raises her eyebrows at me. I gesture to the tele...to the window. "Which bus is this? Are we not going to Jamaica Street?"

Both nurses have turned by now, both shaking their heads at me; if they'd been doing so in unison, I might have laughed.

"No, that's the 37. You're on the 31. This one's going all the way to Hilcroft before the river," the one in the aisle seat says. Her friend nods.

Shit.

My eyes widen as I see the park coming up on our left and hastily press the red 'STOP' button on the handrail above me. Faintly, I hear the driver curse as he pulls in sharply to the right.

I run past the nurses, muttering a hurried 'Thank you!', followed by a meek 'Sorry! Thanks!' to the bus driver and I leap off the bus, onto the sidewalk below. Within seconds, the bus is out of sight and again I'm all by myself at a bus stop. The only positive is that the rain seems to have stopped.

There's no electronic system telling me if and when my bus will come, so I have to go old-fashioned and use the timetable and map. In addition, the light bulb at this stop has blown, so I resort to using my phone as some makeshift torch though it doesn't provide much help. I step closer to the board, phone held directly above my eyes, as I scan for the 37 on the timetable.

I find it just as I hear that familiar sound of wheels on wet tar, though it's much slower than the last time. Cautiously, I crane my neck to the right as I keep my body hidden behind the darkened glass panel and spot a black sedan about a block away, near one of the entrances of the park. The lights are off, though I can still hear the engine, and there appears to be only one man inside.

Am I about to witness a drug deal? Is he picking up a prostitute? Could he just really like driving at night?

I'm about to think up more possibilities when, suddenly, the grating shriek of tires burning rubber fills the atmosphere. Before I have a chance to duck completely out of sight, bright headlights bounce up and over the hill a few blocks behind the black sedan and what appears to be an old-fashioned ambula–

No. No way. What the–?

I suck in a breath as I try to keep as hidden as I possibly can. Something in my gut is telling me I'm not meant to be here, that I'm not meant to witness this. The night's gone still and any warmth I'd felt is slowly dissipating as the scene unfolds, my heart now thundering in my chest, making it all that more difficult to hear.

The vehicle which has now shuddered to a stop beside the black sedan is none other than one of the ambulances used by Arkham Asylum. Trust me, I'd know.

The sliding doors slam open and three average-sized men hop out, all decked out in what appears to be orderly uniforms. Those have not changed one bit. Two of the men stride over to the sedan, one sliding into the back and the other filling the passenger seat.

There's still one orderly waiting by the sliding door and I almost wonder why until I see another man jump down from the ambulance, his body turned my way.

My blood runs cold.

He's the tallest of the lot, with broad, hunching shoulders and long legs. He's dressed in one of those orange jumpsuits but there are no cuffs joining his wrists, no chains linked to his feet. From what I can see, his hair is long, past his ears, possibly at his shoulders, and looks black in the given light. His face comes up almost sickly pale, a stark contrast to his neck and exposed forearms, except for the shadowy areas surrounding his mouth.

My breath hitches.

Although I can't see them in this light, his eyes, I think, are staring straight back at me.

Now, I'm not one to jump to conclusions. I hate it when people do that with me and so I'm always insistent upon learning all the facts first before making any assumptions. But there's something awfully familiar to me about this man. I can't quite place it but the shudder rippling down my back is a clear indication that my body knows this man is dangerous.

I break my gaze to push myself back further into the bus stop. Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe he hasn't seen me, maybe none of them have. Maybe they'll just do what they were going to do and my bus will come and I'll get on it then I'll get home and into bed and I'll be safe.

I hold my breath for a moment because, now, both engines have switched on again.

However, there have been no more sounds of car doors closing.

I hear a splash and a loud smack before,

"Hellooooo?"

That voice. Where have I heard it before?

Another splash follows, then another, then silence again.

"Y'know, it's rude to eavesdrop."

My knees buckle. That voice.

Ohmygodohmygodohmygodohmyg-

The Joker. It has to be.

I, Ruby Carter, Gothamite nobody waiting for the bus home, have managed to intrude upon the Joker's breakout from Arkham. I, Ruby Carter, am now a dead woman.

I shut my eyes—here come the tears!— and try to breathe. What the hell am I going to do?

I freeze as I hear what sounds like a frustrated groan followed by another smack. What on Earth is that?

"Y'know, usually, people want to get this bit over with. Me? I'm always up for a bit of foreplay."

It's the growl that punctuates the end of that sentence that decides my course of action for me.

I take off before I can even think of a plan, emerging fully from the bus stop for the first time that night and sprinting down Rory Street as if my life depended on it. Because it does.

All I can hear is the slide-and-slam of the ambulance door and the screech of tires behind me as both—well, I'm assuming both—vehicles chase after me. Before long, I realize that I am also screeching; I'm pretty sure that if I was in a cartoon, the panel would feature a long, continuous 'Nooooooo!' stretching out behind me.

I'm still running after five blocks—okay, I ran a little bit of track in high school, before the drugs—a feat I'm proud of until I realize I have fifteen more blocks until I reach Gotham's Major Crimes Unit, which, it seems, I've chosen as my first and only port of call.

I stop screaming for a minute to suck in more breaths. All my legs want is for me to be like other people, just get this bit over with, let him have his fun. And for a second my brain rationalizes these thoughts: if the Joker killed me, I'd a) be on the news for the first time in my life(!), b) go down in history as a victim of the infamous Joker, and c) I'd be his first victim back after his hiatus, so to speak. I'd be famous, if only for a little while. People would hear about me, maybe even begin to care about me and how my life ended so young and how it shouldn't have happened. People might even mourn me. I find myself slowing down.

Until three gunshots echo around me and I'm back sprinting as fast as I can.

I am not dying by gunshot, in what would be known on the three o'clock Gotham News as a nameless drive-by. No way, pal.

As I pass the fifteen block marker—only five more—I become aware that the noise has died down. Maybe they realized where I was heading. I want to check over my shoulder but another thought blocks that. It could be a trap: I look over my shoulder, I slow down, they pounce—or, rather, they shoot me from the window.

No, thanks.

I keep going, even though I'm becoming painfully aware of the nasty burning in my throat, sides, and feet. I let out a cry when my destination comes into view. There's a police car sat out front, two cops inside laughing and drinking from styrofoam cups, and I decide to start my screaming again, though my throat is begging for me not to.

Eventually, when I'm about two blocks away, they turn in my direction, eyes frantically searching for whoever is impersonating a tortured cat at this godforsaken hour.

"Please!" My shrieks have managed to pass as words now. "Please, oh my god!"

The two men hurry out of the car. The one nearest me runs my way and manages to catch me as I throw myself into him. His arms are strong, his chest firm but soft, and his breath is warm on my now exposed hair.

"What's going on? What's wrong?" The other one has appeared beside us.

If he's asking those questions, then I must have been right about the vehicles not following me anymore.

"I don't know, man, but she's crying and shaking like mad, we better get her inside."

The one holding me brings his hands to my shoulders and gently pushes me back to look into my eyes. All I can see is the concern in his. "You okay to come inside with us?"

I nod and attempt to step forward, only to slide as my leg refuses to work. Funny, it feels like my bones have evaporated.

He's quick to catch me and this time so is the other one. Each of them takes an arm and wraps it around their neck, their free hands supporting and guiding my waist.

Within seconds, we're inside and a fuzzy quiet has descended over the room. A vaguely familiar mustachioed man in a brown trenchcoat and glasses steps forward, eyes wide at the sight before him.

"What's happened? What's going on?"

The cop on my left speaks up.

"She was screaming and full-on sprinting down Rory, hyperventilating and–"

"I think she's in shock," the other one pipes up. I make a face at that. Oh, and the brown coat man notices because now, he's coming closer, a smile as gentle and earnest as ever on his face.

All at once, I want him to hug me.

"What happened? It's okay if you'd rather not say but you're safe here," he says and his voice is so soft. My eyes narrow and my head lolls to the side as I begin to see three of him. Where do I know you from?

I blink and try to wet my throat by swallowing a few times. I feel myself leaning forward and he's there, ready to catch me if I fall.

I want to say, 'please hold me,' but all I'm able to breathe out is,

"Joker."

A/N: Hello and thank you for reading this little thing I knocked together today whilst trying to break my writer's block!

This was written under the intention of starting another story. My other fic, 'Peel', is not on hiatus nor has it been abandoned; I just couldn't shake this idea from my mind and, well, it blossomed.

It's set a year or so after TDK. Ruby is an OC I've had in the bank for many, many years now, and only recently did I think to 'reboot' her and place her within the Nolanverse. So, we'll see where this goes.

Please let me know what you liked/disliked/IF you liked, haha. Reviews are very much the lifeblood.

Until next time!