A/N: Hey everyone! So... this is probably the most random thing I've ever written . You know that waitress who appears for like two seconds at the start of Arkham Knight? The one working at the diner when Scarecrow first attacks? Yeah, my brain wouldn't let go of her story for some reason. I kept thinking about who she was, what her life was like, and how a regular person experiences those terrifying moments when Gotham goes sideways.
I don't know why my mind latched onto Sharon Jones of all characters, but here we are – a one-shot about her last day at work. Sometimes it's the smallest characters who remind us what it means to live (and die) in a city like Gotham.
Hope you enjoy this weird little story that wouldn't leave me alone until I wrote it down.
Photo Credit: /batman/arkham-knight
Before the Knight Falls
By waterfallsilverberry
5:30 AM. Another day in Gotham.
SHARON was late. Again. The rain came down like a sheet of nails as she hurried down the sidewalk, the worn-out soles of her sneakers slapping against puddles. Cold water seeped through the fabric, soaking through her socks and chilling her toes, but she didn't stop. She pulled her coat tighter around her and hunched forward like it would keep her dry, though she knew better. No one won against Gotham rain.
Her purse, a cheap thing that had started falling apart a long time ago, bounced awkwardly against her hip with each step, the strap digging into her shoulder. It was frayed and thin—just like her bank account. Inside: a couple of receipts, an old lipstick, her community college application (crumpled but still there, always there), and the last $5 bill she had until Friday. A small photo was tucked into her wallet's plastic sleeve—her kid sister Amy's graduation photo from last spring. Sharon had missed the ceremony for a double shift, but the money she'd earned that day had helped buy Amy's textbooks for her first semester at Gotham State.
The neon glow of Pauli's Diner came into view through the rain, its orange sign flickering weakly above the door. The place had seen better days. So had Sharon.
She paused just outside, under the faded awning, and brushed her wet bangs out of her face. Through the window, Sharon could see Earl already seated in his booth, his hat dripping rainwater onto the table. The kitchen lights flickered once, twice, then stayed on. She caught her reflection in the window—tired eyes, hair escaping its bun.
Behind her ghostly image, a TV in the corner silently played the morning news. Something about increased disappearances in the Narrows, another piece about Scarecrow sightings. Sharon looked away.
She exhaled slowly, steeling herself for the day ahead. A few hours slinging coffee and eggs didn't sound so bad, except when it did. Except when it meant another day not being in school, another day watching other people live their lives while she served them toast and coffee.
"Let's go, Sharon," she muttered under her breath. "Amy needs those loan payments." Not letting herself look back, she pulled open the front door, and the bell above jingled weakly.
Inside, Pauli's Diner felt like stepping into another world—one where the relentless rain couldn't get to you, but the smell of old bacon grease and burnt toast did. It was warm in the diner this morning, almost too warm, but it made her shoulders drop just a little.
The diner was decked out to the nines for Halloween, which somehow made it look even more rundown than usual. Strings of orange and purple lights hung crooked from the ceiling, buzzing faintly like dying bugs. A giant paper pumpkin sat taped to the register, its edges curling where the glue wouldn't hold. Plastic bats dangled over the booth, their shadows dancing against the wall every time the ceiling fans spun. And Frank—Brenda's prize decoration, a five-dollar plastic skeleton—leaned against the coffee counter, propped up like he was about to ask her for a refill.
"Morning, Frank," Sharon mumbled, sliding her coat off and wringing out the sleeves.
"There you are! About time you showed up!" Brenda called over her shoulder, the younger waitress's voice cutting through the hiss of the coffee machine. The younger waitress was already elbow-deep in refilling the tables' salt and pepper shakers, strands of dark brown hair barely contained in a messy bun. "You're lucky Benny's too busy to yell at you."
"Two minutes late, and you'd think I committed murder," Sharon replied, tucking her damp purse under the counter. She peeked at the clock above the register. 5.32. Her heart sank. She was two minutes late, and she hadn't even had any coffee yet.
"Benny's not mad about you," Brenda grinned. "He's mad about the griddle."
As if on cue, Benny hollered something unintelligible from the kitchen, followed by the clatter of a frying pan hitting metal.
Sharon winced.
"Fun morning already," she sighed, reaching up to tuck a wisp of hair back behind her ear.
"Just wait," Brenda chirped, passing Sharon the coffee pot. "Table five's here. Earl's already scowling."
Sharon nodded, turning to look in the direction of Earl's table as Brenda resumed her task of refilling the shakers. He was a permanent fixture here, like the squeaky stool at the counter or the busted jukebox in the corner. His coat was spread out on the seat beside him, dripping water onto the cracked vinyl. Sharon didn't approach him right away. She never did. Earl wasn't the kind of man you rushed. He was like the rain outside—steady, persistent, and not about to change for anyone.
Instead, she took her time, moving through the diner as she poured coffee for no one in particular, just letting the familiar comfort and rhythm of her usual routine settle into her bones. The bell above the door jingled, and a gust of cold autumnal air followed a man in a soaked trench coat. He didn't look at her—just shuffled to the counter and shook water from his hat. She glanced at the clock. 5:36. The rain was running Gotham late today, not just her.
Earl's newspaper rustled faintly as he flipped the page. The sound carried through the empty diner like a whisper. Sharon glanced at him again, and this time, she started to make her way over. Her sneakers squeaked against the linoleum, and she winced. The last thing she wanted is for him to snap at her for "sneaking up on him."
She approached with the pot of coffee in her hand, its weight reassuring in a way that nothing else was. At least this was something she knew how to do—refill cups, take orders, smile even when she didn't feel like it. Earl didn't look up when she stopped at his table. He never did.
The front-page headline of this morning's edition of Gotham's Gazette is big and bold, something about "Scarecrow Sightings" and "Disappearances on the Rise." Sharon didn't read the rest. She didn't want to.
"Morning, Earl," Sharon greeted softly, tilting the coffee pot so it filled his mug.
"You're late, Jones," he muttered, his voice rough like gravel in a blender.
"Yeah," she replied. "Blame the rain."
Earl grunted like he didn't believe her—or like he didn't care either way. He wrapped his weathered hands around the mug as steam curled upward into the air. His paper crinkled as he turned the page again, his eyes scanning something he probably didn't like.
"You know," he started, not looking at her, "this damn city's one bad day from falling apart."
Sharon hesitated, the coffee pot still warm in her hand. "City's had plenty of bad days already," she said with a small smile. "We're still here, aren't we?"
Earl didn't respond, just took a slow sip of coffee, his eyes fixed on the page like he was looking for something in the headlines that wasn't there.
Sharon had just finished pouring Earl's coffee when the bell chimed again. Through the rain-streaked window, she caught sight of a sleek black car pulling away from the curb - not the usual fare for this neighborhood.
The man who entered moved with a precise grace that seemed almost out of place among Pauli's worn booths and flickering lights. Tall and silver-haired, with fine lines around keen eyes and an impeccably trimmed mustache, he carried himself with the bearing of someone who'd spent decades in service to others, yet somehow never seemed servile. His perfectly pressed suit and dignified bearing made him look more suited to Wayne Manor's dining room than a downtown diner
"Good morning, Miss," he said, his British accent warm despite the dreary weather. "I don't suppose you'd have any proper tea hiding behind that coffee pot?"
Sharon found herself smiling despite her exhaustion. "We've got some Earl Grey that's only been sitting here since last Christmas."
"That sounds perfectly dreadful," he replied with a slight twinkle in his eye. "I suppose I'll brave it anyway."
As she retrieved the dusty box of tea bags, she noticed his careful study of the Halloween decorations - particularly Frank the Skeleton's crooked bow tie. "Master Wayne would certainly have something to say about that gentleman's choice of neckwear," he mused, almost to himself.
Sharon returned with his tea, steam rising from the chipped mug. His eyes fell on the college application jutting from her purse under the counter, the name "Sharon Jones" visible on the creased corner. "You work for Bruce Wayne?" she asked, unable to contain her curiosity.
"Indeed. Alfred Pennyworth, at your service." He took a sip of tea and managed not to wince. "I find myself in this part of town checking on some of the Wayne Foundation's community projects. Though I confess, I mainly stopped in because this place reminds me of a small café I once knew in London."
Sharon nodded, absently adjusting her name tag. "Must be nice, working up at the manor. Bet it's got better tea."
"Better tea, yes. Better company? That remains to be seen." Alfred's eyes fell on the college application peeking out of her purse under the counter. "You know, Miss Jones, I once knew a young man who thought he couldn't possibly live up to his family's legacy. Now he spends his time trying to save this city." He smiled softly. "Sometimes the most important dreams are the ones that seem impossible."
Before Sharon could respond, Earl's gruff voice called for a refill. By the time she turned back, Alfred was standing, leaving far too much money on the counter for a cup of terrible tea.
"Master Wayne always says Gotham is built on the kindness of everyday heroes," he said, straightening his coat. "People who keep pouring coffee and hoping, even when the nights seem darkest." He nodded toward her college application. "Don't let go of those dreams, Miss Jones. God knows this city needs them."
The bell chimed as he left, and Sharon stood there for a moment, the weight of his words settling around her like a warm coat. She tucked the application a little deeper into her purse, smoothing its worn edges. Maybe impossible dreams were the only ones worth having in a city like Gotham.
Sharon stepped back, letting out a breath she didn't realize she'd been holding, and moved on to the next table in her section. The diner hummed softly as it woke up. Outside, the rain pounded harder against the windows, blurring the world beyond into a mix of gray and shadows. The fake bats hanging above twisted silently in the breeze of the fans.
And for some reason, Sharon couldn't shake the feeling that something was coming.
Something bigger than a storm.
THE morning rush had started by 7:00. The bell over the door jingled on repeat as drenched construction workers, half-asleep cops, and late-shift nurses shuffled in, shaking rain off their coats and boots.
Sharon moved fast—pouring coffee, balancing plates, scribbling orders on her pad until the ink smudged. By now, her sneakers were mostly dry, but her toes still stung with the memory of cold water. She felt the weight of the diner's rhythm settle into her shoulders, like muscle memory kicking in.
She stopped at table three, where a woman and her kid sat. The little boy gripped a worn-out Batman toy in one hand, his other fist clutching the edge of the table as if it might float away. He peeked at Sharon from behind his toy, his brown eyes wide and unblinking.
"What can I get you?" Sharon asked, pulling her pen from her apron's pocket.
The mother smiled faintly. She looked tired—dark circles under her eyes, like she hadn't slept in weeks. "Coffee for me. Milk for him. Just toast, please."
Sharon glanced at the kid and crouched a little to get to his level. "You know, I heard Batman's favorite food is toast."
The kid grinned, the kind of smile only kids can manage—full of missing teeth and too much hope. "Nuh-uh. Batman doesn't eat toast."
"No?" Sharon played along.
"He only eats justice."
Sharon barked out a laugh, surprising herself. "Well, I'll get you some toast just in case. You never know when justice gets hungry."
The mother mouthed a silent thank you as Sharon turned to go. Her smile lingered a little longer than it should, and Sharon felt it follow her as she moved on to her other tables.
She tried not to think about how long it had been since someone had smiled at her like that.
By 8:30, she was back behind the counter, flipping through the tips in her apron pocket. A handful of crumpled bills and loose change. Not bad for the morning, but not great either. It wouldn't cover much beyond a few groceries, and at most, she'd be lucky if she could afford to buy a jar of peanut butter from the convenience store and a day-old loaf of bread from the bakery near her apartment.
An hour before they closed they always sold old bread for a dollar per loaf. Sharon just felt it was nice to have something in her price range. Her fingers brushed the frayed strap of her purse under the counter as she slipped her tips into an inner pocket, and she tried not to think about how many more shifts she'd need before she could even think about buying a new one. Outside, the rain was still coming down, and the sky looked darker than it should have for this time of day. Sharon glanced out the window, watching the puddles ripple under streetlights.
Brenda nudged her with her elbow. "Penny for your thoughts?"
"Rain makes everything feel…off," Sharon murmured, not sure what else to say.
Brenda shrugged, already wiping down the counter. "It's just rain, Shar. Don't let the Halloween goblins get in your head."
Sharon smiled faintly and poured another cup of coffee. But deep down, she couldn't still shake the ominous feeling that something was coming.
WHEN 5:00 PM finally rolled around, Sharon's feet felt like they were made of bricks. She slid a tray of empty plates onto the counter. She glanced at the clock. 5:08. Almost time to go.
Her back ached, and there was an unspoken prayer in her mind for Brenda to get the night shift under control. But of course, that's when Benny stuck his head out of the kitchen window.
"Jones!" he barked, voice muffled over the hiss of the fryer. "Brenda's sister's sick, so you're pulling double tonight. You got a problem with that?"
Sharon stared at him for a moment, her shoulders slumping. "A little heads-up would've been nice."
"Life doesn't come with a heads-up, Jones," Benny said with a shrug before disappearing back into the steam and chaos.
She thought about arguing—about reminding him she'd already worked ten hours—but there wasn't much point. The math was simple: more hours meant more tips, and more tips meant she might be able to scrape together something resembling rent this month. And peanut butter, she thought bitterly.
Brenda gave her a sympathetic grimace as she slid past, already shrugging into her coat. "Sorry, Shar. I owe you one. Big time."
Sharon waved her off, forcing a smile. "Go on. I've got it covered."
The front door chimed as Brenda left, and just like that, Sharon was on her own.
THE dinner crowd trickled in slowly. The evening rain had started again, steady but lighter now, leaving rivulets of water streaking the diner windows. Streetlights outside cast long, flickering shadows across the booths, and the Halloween decorations—the cheap bats and sagging cobwebs—looked sadder in the dim glow.
Sharon worked quietly, her tired movements smooth and practiced. A family with two kids had taken up a corner booth, the little girl banging silverware on the table like drumsticks. An older couple sat near the window, quietly sharing a plate of fries. For a little while, the diner settled into an easy rhythm.
And then Officer Owens walked in.
Sharon noticed him right away—he was still in uniform, his badge glinting faintly as he wiped water off his face. He looked drained, like every cop did these days, his eyes red at the edges. The tension in Gotham seemed to hang heavier on them than anyone else.
He slid into a stool at the counter, setting his cap down next to him. Sharon grabbed a mug and the coffee pot automatically.
"Evening, Officer," she said as she poured. "You're out late."
Owens gave her a tired smile. "Can't a guy just want a cup of coffee without getting interrogated?"
"Fair enough," Sharon said, smirking faintly. "What can I get you besides coffee? Your usual?"
"Sure."
"Okay, chicken salad with no dressing," Sharon chuckled as she jotted down Owens' order onto her order pad, turning toward the kitchen, about to call the order through the window to Benny, though the sight of Officer Owens tilting his head like he was considering something else made her stop. His voice was soft when he said, "Actually, you know what? Tonight, make it waffles. Extra syrup, with a side of bacon. But don't tell my wife."
"Whatever you say, officer. Coming right up," she responded, the edges of her lips twitching as she fought back a smirk as she called the order through to Benny. "Next service, waffles with bacon on the side!"
She turned to refill the coffee pot, but before she could step away, Owens' voice stopped her.
"Everything all right here tonight?"
The question caught her off guard. Sharon turned back, blinking. "What do you mean?"
Owens shrugged, eyes glancing toward the window. The rain was picking up again. "It's just… quiet. Too quiet for Gotham."
The jukebox stuttered back to life, spilling out a scratchy, too-loud version of Blue Suede Shoes. Sharon shook her head and smiled faintly. "I think quiet's what we need more of."
Owens didn't respond right away. He just sipped his coffee, his expression far away, like he was listening for something that no one else could hear.
Fifteen minutes later, Sharon slid Owens' plate across the counter.
"Waffles. Bacon on the side. Syrup to drown it in."
Owens grinned at that, already picking up his fork. "You're a lifesaver, Sharon."
"I'll add it to my résumé."
She moved back toward the register, where the candy bowl sat half-empty, wrappers scattered like leaves. Outside, the street seemed quieter than before—no cars, no pedestrians. Just rain and shadows. It was then that Sharon noticed the man sitting in the farthest booth, tucked into the corner like he was trying to disappear. She frowned, trying to remember when he'd come in. He hadn't ordered anything—just sat there, unmoving. A gray coat hung from his shoulders, its edges damp, and a wide-brimmed hat kept his face hidden in shadow.
"Hey," Sharon said quietly, leaning toward Benny in the kitchen window. "You see the guy in the corner booth?"
Benny glanced up briefly, his forehead creased. "What guy?"
Sharon turned back toward the booth, a chill running down her spine.
The seat was empty. She shook her head and rubbed her eyes. Her stomach twisted.
Just tired, she thought. That's all it was.
Sharon forced herself to go through the motions - wiping down the counter, checking on the older couple by the window, refilling Officer Owens' coffee. But she couldn't shake the feeling of wrongness that had settled over the diner. Her eyes kept drifting back to that empty booth, and the shadows in the corners seemed deeper than before. The rain's steady drumming against the windows had taken on an almost threatening rhythm.
The first scream came from the corner where the young family was seated. It cut through the quiet of the diner like a blade, high and panicked. Sharon froze, the coffee pot nearly slipping from her hand as she turned toward them.
The father was on his feet, arms flailing as though he were being swarmed by invisible creatures. "Get them off me!" he shrieked. "Get them off me!"
The kids screamed next, their cries sharp and piercing.
Sharon rushed toward them, her voice shaking. "Hey—hey! It's okay! Just calm down, you're—"
That's when she smelled it.
The air shifted—sharp and metallic, like rust and chemicals—and Sharon's throat seized. Her lungs burned as she choked, the pot slipping from her hands and shattering against the floor. Around her, the diner unraveled into chaos. The Halloween decorations twisted in the flickering lights, their shadows stretching long and monstrous across the walls. The plastic bats dangling from the ceiling stretched their wings unnaturally wide, glowing red like embers. Frank the Skeleton slumped against the counter, his hollow eyes glowing bright yellow as his jaw creaked open.
Sharon stumbled backward, her chest heaving. Through the haze, she saw her reflection in the chrome of the coffee maker—her face distorting, melting, becoming her mother's disappointed frown. "Community college? People like us don't get to dream, Sharon."
"No," she choked out. "That's not—I can still—"
Owens stood now, his chair clattering to the ground as he spun in circles, his gun shaking in his hand.
"Where are they?!" he bellowed. "Who's in here? Show yourself!"
"Officer—stop!" Sharon cried, but her voice felt small, drowned out by the sounds of screaming and breaking glass.
Something moved in the corner of her eye.
She turned just in time to see the man from the booth—no longer a man at all, but a thing. A silhouette twisted into impossibly long limbs, his coat writhing like a nest of snakes. The brim of his hat tilted back, revealing no face, just endless darkness.
The fear gas hit her like a punch to the chest, and the hallucinations followed a heartbeat later.
The diner was gone.
Instead, Sharon stood in an endless dark void, her feet sinking into a pool of something thick and sticky. Her breath came in ragged gasps as she looked down—her sneakers were submerged in coffee, scalding hot, burning through her shoes. It spread out around her, bubbling and steaming.
"Sharon..."
The voice was Amy's, but wrong—distorted and accusing. Sharon turned to see her sister standing there in her graduation gown, but the fabric was rotting, falling away in strips.
"You promised you'd help me," Amy's voice cracked like breaking glass. "But you're stuck here, just like Mom. Just like all of us."
"No—I'm trying—" Sharon stumbled back, her feet burning in the coffee. "I'm saving up, I'm going to—"
The sound of wings filled the air, and she looked up to see hundreds of college acceptance letters folding themselves into bats, spiraling downward like a black storm cloud. They hit her all at once, paper edges sharp as razors, each one stamped with a red "REJECTED." She screamed as they sliced into her skin, each cut burning with the truth of her failures.
"Help me!" she sobbed. "Someone help me!"
But no one did. No one ever had.
Her back hit the counter, and she fell to the floor, shards of broken dreams and coffee cups slicing into her palms. The paper bats kept coming, their rejection letters turning to ash in her mouth, choking her with promises she couldn't keep. Her vision swam, and through the haze, she could see Frank the Skeleton looming over her, wearing her mother's waitress uniform.
"Oh, Sharon," it whispered in her mother's voice, "did you really think you'd be anything more than this?"
The bats poured into her mouth, each one carrying a memory—Earl's gruff thanks, the Batman kid's smile, Officer Owens' tired grin, Amy's proud wave at graduation through the diner window. All the small kindnesses she'd given, all the hope she'd held onto in this broken city, turned to ash on her tongue. Her fingers scraped against the cold diner floor, searching for something to hold onto as darkness consumed her.
In her last moments, Sharon Jones—who'd poured a thousand cups of coffee and offered a hundred small mercies, who'd dreamed of more but gave what she could—died alone on the floor of Pauli's Diner, just another casualty in a city that collected them like loose change.
WHEN the gas finally cleared, the diner was silent except for the steady drumming of rain against the windows. The Halloween decorations hung limp in the stale air, plastic bats casting misshapen shadows across walls stained with spilled coffee and shattered dreams. Officer Owens sat slumped against the counter, his gun still clutched in his trembling hand, mumbling incoherently about shadows that weren't there.
And in the middle of it all, Sharon Jones lay sprawled on the floor, her eyes wide and unseeing, her lips frozen in a silent scream. Her purse had spilled open beside her, its contents scattered like pieces of an unfinished puzzle—the community college application now soaked in coffee, its edges curling as if trying to escape its fate. The cheap leather strap, frayed and worn just like its owner's hopes, stretched across the linoleum like an abandoned lifeline.
The family in the corner booth was gone, leaving behind overturned chairs and a small Batman action figure that had tumbled beneath the table. It lay there on its side, its plastic cape bent at an odd angle, a silent witness to the city's latest tragedy. Frank the Skeleton watched from his perch, his hollow eyes reflecting the flickering neon of the diner's sign, casting an orange glow across Sharon's still form.
Her phone buzzed once, then again, the screen lighting up with messages that would never be read:
"Big test today. Thanks for believing in me, sis. - Amy"
"Got an A! Call me when you're off work! "
The bell above the door jingled faintly as a shadowy figure in a trench coat stepped outside, disappearing into the rain like a nightmare fading with dawn. But this was no dream anyone would wake from.
Outside, Gotham continued as it always did, a city of shadows and broken promises, where dreams died as quietly as the flicker of a diner's neon sign. But something was different now. The city had lost something it couldn't afford to lose—not a hero, not a victim, but something rarer: a kind soul who poured coffee with the same care she poured hope into others' lives, who saw Batman in little boys' eyes and justice in pieces of toast.
In the end, Sharon Jones died as she had lived—surrounded by the small mercies she'd given freely, the dreams she'd nurtured in a cramped diner, and the hope she'd kept alive in a city that collected broken things like loose change. Her last thought wasn't of fear or failure, but of Amy's proud smile at graduation, seen through a rain-streaked diner window—proof that sometimes, even in Gotham, dreams found a way to survive.
The rain continued to fall, washing away footprints and evidence, but it couldn't wash away the truth: Gotham had lost more than just another waitress that night. It had lost one of its quiet anchors, one of those rare souls who held the city together with small kindnesses and endless cups of coffee, who believed in something better even when better seemed impossible.
And somewhere in the darkness, a shadow smiled, knowing that fear had claimed another victory in a city that had already lost too much.