So, I was rereading The Killing Joke the other day when I got the idea for this story. The Joker's past(s) always stir up discussion among Batman fans, so I couldn't wait to start writing this. After all, if you think about it, Jeannie is one of the most pivotal characters in that universe (if she was canon, of course) and I was shocked at the lack of Jeannie stories in fanfiction. So I decided to take matters into my own hands and write one myself. :) I'm not sure how long it will be just yet, but it will cover at least a ten-year span.

As for the universe itself, it will be a mixture of the one depicted in The Killing Joke and The Dark Knight. Like all stories, it might take a little while to really get going, but hang in there and hopefully I won't disappoint!

DISCLAIMER: I own nothing except for my imagination.

You can read more about Jeannie here: batman . wikia wiki / Jeannie

"Love will not be spurred to what it loathes."

-Two Gentlemen of Verona, Act 5, Scene 2.

April 1994

Some days, there just wasn't anything good on television.

Thirteen-year-old Jennifer Kerr lounged on the couch, waving the remote with one hand and holding the telephone with the other. Her best friend, Miranda, was currently yammering on about the "insane sales" there had been at the mall the day before. If Jeannie didn't distract herself somehow, she would go completely insane.

"So, like, I saw this cute pink top, but it was at the trashiest store! Imagine what everyone would say if they found out I'd gotten it at the Clothing Barn! But I got an even cuter purple sweater at Suzy's Stitches, so that made up for it. I'm going again tomorrow because there was this adorable skirt that Eric said would look totally hot on me."

"Nice." Jeannie pressed the button on the remote yet again. The screen cut to a grainy image of a dark, filthy-looking alleyway where a woman cowered in the corner. A huge figure loomed over her.

"Please—please don't hurt me! I didn't do anything—I swear—"

"You're in the wrong place at the wrong time, lady. You have five seconds to say your final goodbyes."

"No—please! I'll do whatever you want! My husband—"

There was a loud crack, and everything went silent.

"My God, Jeannie! What are you watching?" Miranda screeched.

"The news, actually." Jeannie rolled her eyes at it and flipped channels again.

"Are you serious? They show that kind of stuff on the news?" Miranda sounded horrified.

"I live in Gotham now, remember? It's America's Capital Crime City." Jeannie finally gave up and turned off the television. "Chicago's nothing compared to this."

"Well, I'm glad I'm not you then," her friend a thousand miles away said chirpily. "Anyway, what are you doing for your birthday? You're fourteen in a month, you know."

"I know." Jeannie groaned and closed her eyes. "And I have no idea what I'm doing. I don't really care about birthdays anymore." Not without—

"Jeannie, I don't want to be the one to tell you," Miranda suddenly burst out, "But…but…"

"What?"

"IsawOliverwithSamanthaDouglas."

It took Jeannie several seconds to separate the words, and then another second to process them. The phone went limp in her hand. "What were they doing?" she asked in a strangled voice.

Miranda hesitated. "They…were…holding…hands. But Samantha is just an attention seeking slut, everyone knows that. It won't be long before he dumps her."

"I have to go, Mir," Jeannie said, feeling her chest constrict.

"Jeannie, wait…"

"My mom is calling me. Bye." She quickly pressed the off button and stared at the blank television screen, feeling tears pricking at her eyes.

"Why are you still friends with her?" a voice said from the doorway.

Jeannie jumped when she saw her older sister Harriet, leaning against the wall as if she'd been there all along. "Why does it even matter to you?" she snapped.

"Miranda is a superficial airhead, like the rest of your friends back in Chicago," Harriet replied. "Shouldn't you start making some new friends in Gotham?"

"Gee, thanks for the advice, sis," Jeannie said sarcastically. "Now that I've heard your wonderful words of wisdom, I can die happy."

Harriet shook her head in exasperation. "I'm just trying to help."

"Help not appreciated!"

The older girl now looked angry. "Fine. I give up."

"Good," Jeannie muttered, trying to ignore the sinking feeling in her stomach.

The front door opened, and Harriet eagerly jumped forward. But it was just their father coming home from work. "Hi, girls," he said, sounding weary as he took off his jacket and hung it in the closet. "Sorry I had to work so late."

"I was hoping you were Zach," Harriet sulked. "He's taking me on a date tonight."

But Jeannie felt a pang of sympathy for her father. Michael Kerr had what was probably the most difficult job in Gotham: a police officer. Four months ago, the Gotham Police Department had sent out a desperate plea for help to all of the major cities in America. They had tried to recruit all of the officers they could by bribing them with enormous salaries and extended vacations. Mr. Kerr had taken up the offer at once and the family had relocated to Gotham. The move had been hard on everyone—especially Jeannie. But after her initial rage had calmed, she tried her hardest to be more understanding.

"How was your day, Dad?" she asked, more to distract herself than anything else.

Mr. Kerr shrugged. "It was no different than usual. Five arrests, three investigations of suspicious people…"

"Remind me again why we moved to Gotham?" Harriet asked cynically.

"We live in Gotham Estates, Harriet," Mr. Kerr said tiredly, rubbing his face. "It's the safest place in the entire city."

Just as Harriet was about to make an (obviously) intelligent and kind remark, the doorbell rang and she immediately threw the door open again. This time, it revealed a handsome, black-haired boy. "Hi, Zach!" Harriet squealed. "Bye, Dad! Mom knows where I'm going!" She grabbed the boy's arm and the two of them raced out the door.

Mr. Kerr shook his head and continued down the hallway. Jeannie followed him like a puppy would: it was either absorb herself in something else or go up to her room and cry.

In the kitchen, her other older sister, Rebecca, and her mother were cleaning up after dinner. "Oh, Michael, you're home," Victoria Kerr said in relief. "What took you so long?"

"One of our investigations went a little bit longer than we'd expected," Mr. Kerr answered.

"What happened?" Rebecca asked.

"A woman was assaulted in Gotham Acres," Mr. Kerr said, reaching into the fridge to get some leftovers. "We investigated the primary suspect but couldn't get anything out of him. His family insists that he's innocent."

"So how is he a primary suspect?" Jeannie said.

Mr. Kerr smiled and ruffled her hair. "Very sharp," he praised her. "Well, let's just say he's a known alcoholic and he was tried about nine years ago for murdering his wife."

"But he was proven innocent?"

"Yes, but for the life of me, I don't know how that was possible. All the evidence pointed to him." Mr. Kerr sat down at the table and leaned back in his chair. "Gotham is a corrupted city."

"If it makes you feel better, Dad, I've not been mugged, beaten, or raped yet," Jeannie said.

"That's because you've never left Gotham Estates." It was hard to tell whether her father was joking or not. "Speaking of which, Jeannie: do you know a boy by the name of Jack Napier, by any chance?"

It sounded vaguely familiar. "Um, I think there's one in my class."

"What does he look like?"

"God, I don't know." Jeannie tried her hardest to remember the blurred figure in her memories. "He has blond hair, I think. It's kind of curly. Oh, and he has these horrible scars on either side of his mouth. Like a twisted smile or something." She remembered the first time she'd glanced at the boy and automatically winced. He'd noticed her staring and glared back with hostile eyes until she turned away, shuddering.

"That's definitely the one." Mr. Kerr put down his fork. "He's the son of the man we were investigating today, Paul Napier. From Paul's files, I discovered that he has a fourteen-year-old son that goes to your school."

"That's nice," said Jeannie, confused. "Do you want me to do anything about it?"

"Actually, I do. Although we can't yet prove whether Paul Napier is guilty or not, Jack's father is not the nicest person at any rate. Until then, all we can do is make sure Jack seems relatively happy. I told Sergeant Gordon that I thought my daughter went to school with Jack, and he asked that you keep an eye on him. Talk to him, maybe. If he tells you anything or lets something slip, come to me at once."

Jeannie chewed on her lower lip. "So you want me to fake being his friend so I can wheedle information out of him that he clearly doesn't want to give? Nice, Dad."

Mr. Kerr let out a long sigh. "At least make sure he looks well."

"Okay, so I'll be a stalker and watch him from afar." Jeannie grinned and patted her father's shoulder. "Sounds fun."

"Jeannie—"

She laughed and ran out of the kitchen before he could catch her.

Once she was in her room, however, her cheerfulness disappeared. With nothing to distract her from what Miranda had said, she was alone with her thoughts.

When she was three years old, the Hammet family had moved in across the street from the Kerrs. Jeannie had immediately struck up a close friendship with their son, Oliver—a friendship that lasted for the next ten years. They had gone on vacations together, they'd had sleepovers, and they'd trusted each other with their deepest secrets and fears. Jeannie had developed a crush on him as time went on, but she didn't dare to tell him about it.

Shortly before the Kerrs moved to Gotham, Oliver's father had been shot. Jeannie had tried her hardest to comfort him, but he'd grown increasingly cold towards her. The last contact they'd had was at her good-bye party, where she'd plucked up the nerve to kiss him. He hadn't pulled away, but he didn't seem happy either. Even though Jeannie had given him all of her contact information before she'd left, he'd never attempted to reach her. And now, if Miranda was telling the truth, he was dating the most popular girl at school.

In a sudden burst of anger and resentment, Jeannie grabbed the picture frame standing on her bedside table (a photo of her and Oliver when they were ten) and threw it across the room. It hit the opposite wall with a loud thump and fell to the floor, where the glass shattered into a thousand pieces.

Jeannie slumped back onto her bed and burst into tears.

Life is a lot more depressing when you don't have any friends, she decided as she trudged to school the next morning. Maybe Harriet was right…maybe I need to stop obsessing about my life back in Chicago and try to make some new friends here.

But the problem was, who would? A few girls had tried to befriend Jeannie when she had first started school, but they had quickly stopped when she hadn't shown any interest back in them. For the past four months, she'd been a loner, an outsider. It had never bothered her…until now. If Oliver had moved on with his life, she ought to as well, right?

With a determined set to her chin, but a not-so-determined heart, she walked into the classroom trying to look friendly. Nobody even glanced up at her, though. The girls were all too absorbed in their own little cliques and the boys were too busy being…well…boys.

Jeannie huffed and dropped into her seat. It didn't matter anyway. There were just two more months of eighth grade before high school. She would surely make some new friends there.

Two minutes before the bell rang, Jack Napier walked into the classroom. Jeannie perked up with interest, remembering what her father had told her last night. Aside from the scars on his face, which were a good two inches long and curved upwards like a grotesque smile, he didn't look like the child of an abusive father.

In the four months she had been in Gotham, Jeannie hadn't heard Jack say a word. He sat at the very back of the classroom and was usually the first to leave and the last to arrive. She'd never seen him with anyone else. He appeared to be friendless—kind of like her. She'd never thought about that before.

Maybe she could try to befriend him. Or, at the very least, "keep an eye on him."

It wasn't as if she had anything better to do—as sad as it was.