The shrill buzz of the intercom in his cell hurled Jack awake, slicing through the quiet darkness enveloping him. A slit in the door slid open, bathing the cell in a thin beam of light. Two eyes stared into a uninterested pair.
"Get up, Jack. You've got an appointment," gruffly filled the silence.
Jack blinked at the words, hardly processing them. His eyes were half-closed, his mind still foggy from what little sleep he'd got. "Alright," he muttered, the voice scratchy. He pushed himself up, where the cold floor stung his bare feet on standing.
The door clanked open, and Jack shuffled out, rubbing his eyes. The guard waited, arms crossed, nodding for Jack to follow. They walked down the dimly lit hallways, the fluorescent lights above them sputtering on and off irregularly. The smell of disinfectant intermingled with something stale and unclean-a perpetual memory of the age and purpose of the building.
They passed a few patients in faded uniforms, some of them busy sweeping the floor or scrubbing at stubborn stains on the walls, while others simply lounged around staring blankly into the distance. Most of them barely noticed Jack, lost in their little worlds. He felt a strange, disconnected comradery with them, he thought-lost souls in the forgotten corners of Gotham.
As they walked by the lounge room, Jack noticed the big screen television on the wall. The news was on, the headline crawling along the bottom of the screen: Bruce Wayne funds the Process for New Arkham Facility.
The screen flickered to a gleaming bright Bruce Wayne, smiling confidently as he addressed a crowd of reporters. He spoke with fluidity, his voice smooth, reassuring.
"This project will bring much-needed security not only to Gotham but conditions improved for residents here, most of the current system has failed whom. We can together make Arkham a place of rehabilitation, not just incarceration."
Jack stopped dead in his tracks, staring at the screen. His mouth tightened, his eyes narrowing.
A fellow prisoner leant on one chair and, noticing Jack was standing there mesmerized by the box, looked up at him, raising an eyebrow. "Hey, Jack, you alright?"
The guard snapped around, glaring at Jack. "Hey, keep moving."
Jack blinked, tearing his gaze away from the screen, before giving a small, almost apologetic nod.
The guard led him through another set of locked doors, the clang of metal clanging around them. Another hallway passed, until finally, he reached the door to the familiar therapy room. The guard unlocked it, holding the door open with a smirk.
"Alright, go on. You know the drill."
Jack came in and, with a half-bow of his head, greeted his already-seated therapist at the table. It was as cold and sterile in this room as it always was; the bare walls and flickering lights gave it a bleakness that was matched outside by the city.
An assistant strolled over and fiddled with an old camera on a tripod in the room's corner. She turned it on; the little red light started blinking. Jack's eyes caught the camera and stared into the lens as if it could see something inside him that even he could not, before he looked back at the therapist.
The assistant cleared her throat and looked at her notepad. "The date is. March 7th, 2005."
The therapist adjusted her glasses and looked at Jack through a piercing-but-gentle stare. "Jack, how are you feeling today?"
His face cracked into an oiled-on smile. "I'm just fine."
Outside, chaotic sounds of city streets filled his ears.
Jack strode along the fractured sidewalk, his hands sunk to the wrists in the coat pockets and the coat pulled tight against the slashing wind. Cars honked, and tires slapped water onto the pavement, sending sprays of black filth back onto the sidewalk. Down the block, a man was yelling for a taxi.
"Hey! Taxi! Taxi, over here!" The man flailed his arms wildly, his voice lost amidst the other street noises. The cab whisked past him, uncaring; its taillights glowed red in the early evening gloom.
Jack turned to him with a slight, habitual smile, not quite amusement, and continued onward at the slow, unhurried pace. It was a familiar walk, one he'd done more times than he could remember. He moved past run-down storefronts, graffiti-slashed walls, and here and there a heap of garbage that had been left uncollected in the alleys.
He finally arrived at his destination-a building that was dimly lit, with an old neon sign showing Jokers Comedy Club. The "J" flickered weakly, lending an air of decomposition to the whole sign, as if even the building itself had given in. This wasn't exactly that kind of comedy club where aspiring comedians worked the nuts and bolts, with aspirations of becoming the next big name. No, this was more like some sad, pathetic parody - a cruddy facility with washed-up acts, cheap laughs galore.
Inside, the club was a cavernous space filled with rickety chairs and mismatched tables scattered around a small stage. The air was thick with stale beer smell, and the faint crackling of canned laughter over old speakers. The walls hung crookedly with posters of past performers-comedians, magicians, and low-rent novelty acts-the colors faded, peeling.
Jack wasn't here to perform stand-up. He was one of those "clown acts," hired to warm up the crowd or to kill the time between other performances. His role was to wear the makeup and oversized shoes, juggling, making balloon animals, and occasionally delivering lines that were more pitiful than funny. Months were doing this gig now, and the novelty had worn off long ago. It was rare that the crowd cared, more interested in heckling him than laughing with him.
Jack stepped into the dressing room, heading for his clown costume hanging beside the mirror, but before he could grab it, a hard slap landed across his back, almost sending him stumbling forward.
"Look who finally dragged his sorry ass in here!" Ricky sneered, his wiry frame quivering with barely constrained energy. His wild black hair hung messily over his face, and his grin twisted into something between amusement and cruelty. "You ready for another night of eatin' shit, Jack the Hack?"
Jack forced out a laugh, too loud and unnatural. "Hey, you know me, Ricky-always here to keep you guys entertained!"
Ricky exploded into a bark of laughter and elbowed the shorter, greasy-haired guy beside him. "Yeah, Lenny, you hear that? Jack here thinks he's our personal court jester! Guess he's got some use after all."
Lenny crossed his arms, giving a disdainful glance at Jack while he tugged at his shirt collar. "Entertaining? I dunno, Ricky, the only thing entertaining about this guy is that beat-up coat he keeps wearin' like it's his Sunday best. You ever hear of a laundromat, Jack? Pretty sure they still got those around here."
Jack snickered, scratching the back of his head. "Ah, I like the vintage look, you know? Adds character."
Ricky just shook his head, smirking. "Adds character, all right. You're a regular style icon, Jack. Real inspiration for anyone lookin' to end up face-down in the gutter."
He slammed his hand against Jack's back again, this time with more force, and Jack almost lost his balance. Grinning, still, Jack managed, though it throbbed where Ricky's hand had come down on his spine.
"Anyway, don't break a leg out there, Hack," Lenny snickered, giving Jack a quick shove with his shoulder as he moved past. "Then we'd actually have to watch you flounder."
They walked out of the room, laughing; their chuckles diminished to a faded echo in the hall. The door closed behind them, leaving Jack standing in strained quiet, the forced grin sliding from his face as he turned back to his costume.
Across the room, the tall, burly figure in the corner snorted. Eddie had been watching the whole exchange with a look that was somewhere between irritation and boredom, his hands busy checking the handle on the large rubber mallet he used in his slapstick act. He barely looked at Jack as he spoke.
You know, you really let those morons treat you like trash, don't you?" Eddie muttered flatly. Giving Jack a lazy two-finger salute, he half-smiled. "But hey, maybe you like it that way. Some guys are made for the bottom, I guess."
Jack shrugged, forcing a weak smile as he reached for his costume. "It's just how we are, Eddie. They're my friends, right? Just givin' me a hard time."
Eddie raised a pointed eyebrow, narrowing as he gave Jack the once-over. "Friends? Sure, kid. Friends like that'll see you're laughing all the way to the grave." He turned back to his mallet, studiedly indifferent. "But hey, if that's all you want out of this, then you're right where you need to be."
Marty leaned against the wall in the corner, watching the exchange silently. He hadn't said a word while Ricky and Lenny mocked him, just stood there flipping one of the juggling pins in his hand, his gaze following Jack.
He forced himself to pay attention to his costume, tugging on the oversized jacket and buttoning it up, while Marty finally stepped forward, crossing his arms and fixing Jack with a steady, almost sympathetic gaze.
"You ever think about what you're really doing here, Jack?" Marty asked, his voice low but serious. "I mean, look at this place. You want more than this, don't you?"
Jack froze, his hands outstretched over his costume. He looked up at Marty; their eyes met. Marty's eyes were unflinching, steady, almost challenging.
Jack was completely silent.
And Jack, still standing there, the pressure of Marty's question heavier than a mountain on his backside, gazed away from the room and beyond, where some sounds dimmed down. He felt a burning sensation at the bottom of his tummy, like the strong, deep, and quiet beat of a drum building into a rhythm. He closed his eyes, and in that one second he was not standing in this dingy, fusty dressing room anymore. No, he was in a grand theatre, the kind with bright lights and gold trimmed curtains.
He could hear music swell-a jazzy, electric tune. His heart raced and his body moved in time with the rhythm, a grin spreading wide across his face. He threw his arms out and his voice boomed as he sang, the words spilling from him with an energy he'd never felt:
"One day soon, they'll all know my name!
From gutters to riches, I'll rise to fame!
Laughin' with me, they'll all shout and cheer,
Jack Napier's the king—they'll all love me here!"
Suddenly, a spotlight came down on him, and he whirled around, standing on a huge stage. The crowd was roaring, clapping, their faces bright with admiration. He threw his head back, singing the next verse in a voice filling the theatre:
"Money, power, fame—oh, I'll have it all!
They'll call me the greatest to ever grace these halls!
Gotham will know me, the man of the hour,
Standing tall with Wayne, basking in the light of power!"
Dressed in vivid costumes, performers appeared around him-twirling, clapping in rhythm. Even Ricky and Lenny were present to cheer him on, faces covered with awe. He pointed at them with a smirk, snapping his fingers as they danced along with him, mimicking his moves, their once-mocking eyes now full of admiration. There were even Marty and Eddie-applauding, smiling, calling his name.
Jack spun, grinning, and the crowd started chanting, "Napier! Napier! Napier!" The waves crashed over him, swelling inside his chest, feeding him, making him feel ten feet tall. He couldn't help it. He was laughing, basking in their adoration, feeling the rush of their love and admiration pump through him.
Then, from the other end of the stage, a tall figure emerged; he was wearing an impeccable suit. It was Mr. Thomas Wayne, who approached, beaming with such great warmth. The crowd parted to give him way to extend a hand toward Jack.
"Napier!" he exclaimed proudly. "I am so proud of you, son! Together, you and I-we're going to make Gotham better. You're my greatest creation."
The crowd went wild, and Jack's heart swelled. Putting an arm around his shoulder and pulling him in close, Wayne turned to face the audience, his other hand rising for silence. "Ladies and gentlemen, I am proud to announce that Jack Napier is my son!"
The audience was at a gasp, then the entire crowd quieted into cheers until the sound of their clapping filled every nook in the theatre. Jack could hardly breathe or think. For the very first time in his life, he'd been seen, was finally known, by somebody. He had power, had respect, was someone.
"Jack?"
The word sliced through the fantasy like a knife, and he blinked, the vibrant scene evaporating before his eyes. Suddenly, he found himself back inside the dingy dressing room, its faded walls and peeling paint closing in tightly around him. He looked up, disoriented, to find Marty watching him, an expression of concern etched on his features.
"Jack?" Marty repeated, his voice softer now, as if he was worried he'd lost him for a second. "You good?"
Jack forced a weak smile, the lingering echoes of the fantasy melting away to leave only the cold dressing room. "Yeah," he mumbled, his voice barely a whisper. "Yeah, I'm good."
Jack sat alone in the dim, empty dressing room, staring at his reflection in the cracked mirror. He took a rag and slowly erased the smudged clown makeup, the residual streaks of his forced smiles vanishing under the coarse strokes of the rag. His shirt was stained with spilt beer from earlier, what was left behind from an audience that loved to heckle more than laugh along with him. He let out a deep sigh and dropped the rag on the table.
The door creaked open and Frank, the manager of the club, walked in with a scowl. He flipped a small, crumpled envelope onto the table, hardly looking at Jack. "Today's haul," he grunted, turning and walking out without another word.
Jack opened the envelope, shaking out a few crumpled bills and coins. He counted it-the pitiful sum barely enough to cover a week's groceries. He sighed, shoving the money into his pocket as he glanced around the empty room.
He could hear Eddie's voice booming from down the hall, angry and sharp. "Yeah, well, maybe if that spineless idiot hadn't backed out, I wouldn't be stuck in this dump! Look, I'm done with this crap. I'll find someone else for the gig." A pause, then louder, angrier. "No, don't you tell me to calm down!"
Jack shook his head, reaching for his coat. Yanking it on, he stepped out into the cold, drizzling rain that hit him the moment he pushed open the club's side door. Shoving his hands deep into his pockets and hunching his shoulders against the chill, he set off toward the bus stop; the streetlights casting long, murky reflections in the rain-soaked pavement.
He sat on the bus, pulled out a small, dog-eared notebook, and wrote half-ideas of jokes and lines, chuckling softly to himself as he wrote out the words in a slight blur as he stared at them. Why did the clown cross the road? Because no one would hire him to stay. He snorted, forcing the laugh, bitterness so strong it barely concealed the ache beneath.
As the bus rounded the corner near his apartment, Jack looked out the window; a poster slapped on the wall outside a small shop featuring Thomas Wayne caught his gaze smiling confidently, his name in bold letters above a tagline that read: "Vote Wayne for Mayor: A Better Gotham for All!"
Along with the poster, one volunteer was under a rain-swept umbrella waving a sign and calling to passers-by, "Vote for Thomas Wayne! He's gonna clean up this city!"
Jack's eyes remained fixed on the poster, his eyes narrowing slightly. His lips hauled up into a small, humourless smile as his hand rose, mimicking the volunteer's fist in the air. "Yeah, vote for my dad…" he muttered, heavy with sarcasm. He shook his head, his eyes clouding. "Maybe if he really were my dad, I wouldn't be dealing with this shit."
The scene faded back into the therapy room, and the therapist's voice broke the silence. Leaning forward, her brow furrowed. "Really, Jack? Do you really mean that? If you were... Mr. Wayne's son, would things really have been so different for you?"
Jack's eyes fixed on hers, his face firming slightly as he rummaged into his pocket for a cigarette. He flicked his lighter, the flame briefly illuminating his features before he sucked in a long, languid drag. He blew out a plume of smoke, his gaze distant.
"No…." he whispered, his head moving negatively. "No, it wouldn't have changed anything."
The therapist leaned in, catching something else in his voice. "Jack, what happened to Thomas Wayne that year? Was that what you wanted?"
He paused, staring down at the cigarette, watching the thin tendrils of smoke curl upward. His voice came low, almost a whisper, but it cut like a razor.
"No," he said, his mouth twisting into a bitter smile. "But he got what he fucking deserved."