The door to the apartment burst open, and Jack came into the room, shrugging off the dampened coat. He slung it onto the rack beside the front door, brushing off the cold rain as he looked around the dark, cluttered room of his living room.
"I'm home, Ma!" he yelled out, throwing his keys on the small table.
He heard his mother's excited voice behind the room. "Jackie! Oh, I've got something very important to tell you! Come here, hurry!"
He rolled his eyes, letting a small sigh out. It sounded, nights on end, like she had something different every evening-some wondrous story or great wisdom she'd remembered. "Alright, I'm coming, Ma!" he replied, tromping down the hall toward her room, the hint of a smile tugging at his lips.
He found her up in bed, her meager frame swathed in a well-worn blanket. Her hands were clasped tightly together, her eyes wide and almost childlike in their excitement. He grabbed the towel he kept nearby and guided her towards the small bathroom.
He turned the faucets on, filling the tub. Glancing over his shoulder at her, he watched her hum softly to herself as her gaze went far away. He helped her settle into the warm water and grabbed a washcloth, scrubbing her arms gently.
She sighed, her face relaxing as she settled back, a smile breaking through the usual tension in her expression. "Oh, Jackie, life wasn't always like this, you know. I had dreams once, dreams that would've taken me far away from here."
Jack nodded, not really paying much attention as he moved the washcloth over her shoulders. "Yeah, Ma, you've mentioned it before. You used to work all kinds of jobs."
She smiled, the memories lightening her eyes. "Yes, I did. I was always on the go, meeting people, doing things. But there was a time… oh, Jackie, there was a time when I thought I'd finally made it. I was working for someone important. He was powerful. Magnetic."
He nodded, half-listening as he began scrubbing her back. "Yeah? Who was it?"
She hesitated, her fingers tracing the edge of the tub as she glanced away, her voice dropping to a near whisper. "Thomas Wayne."
Jack froze, the washcloth pausing mid-scrub. He looked up; his eyes narrowed slightly. "You… you worked for Thomas Wayne?"
She nodded, a wistful smile crossing her face. "Yes, I did. I was just a secretary, but it felt like more. I was part of something, Jackie, something big. Watching him walk through those office doors every day, like he owned the world." She laughed softly, her head shaking. "He did, really. He could light up a room just by being in it."
Jack's eyes rose as his interest piqued; his hand stilled on her skin as he listened to her, his mind racing. "And you… you got close to him?"
She bit her lip, looking down as though embarrassed. "Yes, we got close. Closer than anyone would think. I didn't plan it, but there was something there. A connection." She looked up at him; her voice shook slightly. "And then, a few months later… I found out I was pregnant. With you."
Jack's hand dropped, and the washcloth fell into the water with a soft splashing sound as he stared, his heart pounding, at her. He felt the room around him spinning as her words finally sunk in.
"You… you were with Thomas Wayne?" His voice was little more than a whisper, his mind stumbling over what she was telling him.
She nodded her head, her eyes steady-imploring, almost. "Yes, Jackie. I thought he'd come for us, that he'd want to be part of our lives. But… that didn't happen. He never knew about you, and I never told him. I couldn't."
Jack stared at her, his face blank.
"Jack."
He blinked, the memory dissolving like smoke, and he stared up to see his therapist watching him intently. The sterile, pale walls of the therapy room surrounded him, and he suddenly felt exposed under her steady gaze.
She adjusted her glasses, her voice calm but firm. "Your mother, Jack… she was delusional.
Jack scowled at her, his cigarette loose between his fingers as his brain reeled from the abrupt jerk back to reality. He sucked on a drag slowly, tugging the smoke around him as he glanced over at the calendar tacked up on the wall: March 8th, 2005.
He flipped open a file labeled with his mother's name. "Your mother was a paranoid schizophrenic, and she suffered from severe delusions. All documented right here in the medical records: paranoia, hallucinations, disordered thinking. She suffered these things for years, Jack. She was.. unwell."
The ember flared as Jack took another deep drag on the cigarette, unconsciously tightening his grip as he tried to steady himself. His mind swung back to his mother's words, how she had looked at him, the conviction in her tone.
"I believed her," he snarled-the words raking through him like a raw filet knife. He was on his feet, confronting the therapist's inscrutable gaze, anger seething beneath the lid. "You weren't there. You didn't see her face, didn't hear the way she said it."
The therapist held his gaze and replied, "I understand you want to believe her, Jack. But sometimes the things we want to believe aren't real. She was sick, and it's not your fault. But you accept that her illness distorted her perception of reality."
He clamped his mouth shut, looking away from her as he ground the cigarette into the ashtray. He wanted to shout, rip apart the words she'd just used, tell her she was wrong. But she wasn't.
She watched him, her pen poised over her notepad. She jotted down his outburst as her face composed itself, as if she'd expected it. She leaned forward slightly, her tone softening.
"I know, Jack. That hope can make everything just a little more bearable," she said softly. "But I want you to focus on what's real-what's here and now. It's time you build your identity, not based on what others may have said, but on what you know to be true."
Jack sat back, crossing his arms as he stared at a crack in the plaster wall, still bristling with anger. He bit his lip; the words slipping out before he could stop them.
"I was… I was excited," he muttered, the word trailing off as if speaking more to himself than to her.
Jack found himself back on the street, moving briskly along as he hopped from one bus to the next. He was lost in thought, and the rhythm of the city around him barely registered as he replayed the conversation with his mother over and over in his head.
She jotted another note and left him alone, not pushing the matter any longer as he composed himself.
The scene shifted once more, and Jack was on the street, making his way down the sidewalk by hopping from one bus to another, his mind elsewhere as he took the stops across Gotham. His head still reeled from talking with his mom as she seemed to speak endlessly, the cadence of the city around him little more than a murmur as words replayed themselves in his mind.
Soon enough, he was at the train station, fighting his way onto a crowded platform and sliding inside to find a place near the back of the car. Leaning against the cool pane of the window, he let the train lurch forward and the stations blur together in a haze of neon signs and rain-slicked concrete. For one brief instant, he felt a sense of calm while the city passed him by, each stop carrying him farther from the weight of his thoughts.
But it would not last.
The train shrieked to a stop, and a posse of men tumbled into the car, still laughing and swaying, their voices high-pitched and slurred. They staggered down the aisle, clothes rumpled and stained, and Jack could smell the alcohol on them before they'd even reached his proximity.
One of the men-a lanky guy with a messy beard and a wild look in his eye-stumbled up to Jack, leaning down with a grin that was more sneer than smile. "Hey, you look like you've seen a ghost, buddy!" he jeered, nudging the guy next to him. "What, you too good to say hi?"
Jack gave a brief look upward, then down, unwilling to meet him eye to eye. "N-no, I-uh-I'm just. heading to see a friend." he muttered.
"Oh, is that right?" chimed in another man, a big man with a scar running down his cheek. He chuckled and hit Jack on the shoulder, a little too hard. "Friend, huh? Must be nice, havin' somewhere a friend to go to. Bet he's got a big house too." He leaned in closer, breath sour with beer. "You some kinda big shot or somethin'? Too important to share a drink with us?"
Jack shook his head, his eyes darting back and forth between them. "No, I'm not. I'm just..just minding my own business."
Again, they exchanged looks. The laughter that followed was sharp and jeering. "Minding your business, huh?" the first man drawled, sarcasm dripping from every word. "Well, don't you worry, we won't mess with ya too bad. Ain't that right, boys?"
They were laughing, digging elbows into each other as they swayed in the aisle, but Jack kept his eyes on the floor, mumbling a quick, "Yeah, yeah… thanks.".
They finally got bored and headed to the next car, their boisterous laughter slowly disappearing into the night. Jack let out a slow breath, his shoulders relaxing as he turned his gaze back to the window. The city rolled by, and he caught his reflection in the glass—a tired face, eyes ringed with shadows, staring back at him.
Jack stepped off the train and ran through the mist, hands shoved deep in his jacket pockets, as he headed for the friendly glow of O'Leary's: a small bar nestled between a couple of run-down shops. He pushed open the door, the rush of warm air surrounding him as he stepped inside, the faint smell of whiskey and old leather greeting him comfortingly, familiar.
He scanned the room, and it was mostly empty, with a few regulars scattered about the tables, nursing drinks and staring off into space. He walked up to the bar and slid onto a stool, drumming his fingers against the worn wood.
From behind the bar, the bartender, Mick, looked over and nodded at him. "Be right with ya, Jack!" he called, wiping his hands on the towel as he finished up with another customer.
Jack got comfortable, the anticipation already beginning to build in his stomach. He breathed in deeply, barely containing himself. Finally, Mick ambled over, setting the towel aside before leaning on the bar, his bushy eyebrows raised.
"All right, Jack," Mick said, eyeing him with curiosity. "You're practically bouncing over here. What's got you so riled up tonight?"
Jack couldn't help but beam. "Mick, you're not gonna believe this. It's… it's huge." He leaned in, lowering his voice a little, as if he were sharing a precious secret. "Ma said to me last night. She said… she said my real father was Thomas Wayne."
An eyebrow arched as Mick crossed arms over his chest, a skeptically pitying look in his eyes as he regarded Jack. "Thomas Wayne, huh?" he said, his voice very slow, as though he were talking to a small child. "You sure you didn't mishear her, Jack? You know how your ma gets sometimes."
Jack's face fell slightly, but he shook his head almost at once, his excitement undimmed. "No, no, she was serious, Mick! She said she worked for him back in the day. Had an affair, and… well, here I am.".
Mick let out a sigh and gave Jack a long, measured look. He reached for a glass, setting it in front of Jack, and pouring him a drink. "Look, Jack-I get it. But you know your ma's been known to say things sometimes. She gets these … ideas. And I don't want to see you get your hopes up only to come crashing down, you know?"
Jack tightened his fists slightly, the excitement faltering at the patronizing tone Mick had gained. "I'm telling you, Mick, this is different. She sounded so sure, like she'd been holding onto it for a long time."
Mick leaned across the bar, his face softening; but his voice was cautious and picked his words with deliberate slowness. "Jack, I'm just saying maybe you should take it with a grain of salt. You're a good guy. Don't let dreams get the better of you."
Frustration replaced the excitement in Jack's voice, his hand clenching on the glass. "Why do you talk to me like I'm a kid, Mick? I'm telling you, this is real! She wouldn't lie about something like that. I know it!"
Mick raised a hand, smiling at Jack in a small, almost hazing manner. "All right, all right. Meant nothing by it, Jack. I'm just lookin' out for you, that's all."
Jack laughed, waving a hand to brush off Mick's caution. "Yeah, I get it, Mick. Just looking out for me, right?" He took another swig from his glass, feeling the warmth settle in his chest. He turned on his stool, letting his gaze drift up to the TV mounted in the corner of the bar.
The game was on; the field alive with action as players lined up, and the crowd buzzed in excited anticipation. The camera cut to a shot of the scoreboard, showing October 1992. A voice of a commentator filled the bar, calling play-by-play while the camera panned the stadium, capturing the sea of fans on their feet with painted faces and waving flags. The atmosphere was electric, palpable.
Jack's eyes were riveted to the screen; his face twisted with the thought of being there-under those brilliant lights, all those staring eyes. He let the noise wash over him, his heart pounding rapidly in his chest.
The announcer's voice boomed over the stadium: "And here he comes, the star of the night, Jack Napier!"
"Jack! Jack! Jack!" The chant came to his ears, swelling around him. He could feel the energy, the intensity of thousands of voices calling his name, only for him. He could envision himself standing in the middle of the field, surrounded by cameras flashing, people clapping, the world watching.
He smiled and fell in, the players of the field staring back at him with admiration and wonder shining in their eyes, nodding as though to say, We got this, Jack; lead the way. The commands burst from his throat-strong, sure, with the voice carrying out across the stadium. There was a snap, and he was in motion, flawless precision with every step pre-calculated, each movement without fault.
Jack juked left, then right, leaving defenders grasping at his backside like he was standing still. The goal line was in sight, a clear path to victory stretched out before him. The crowd roared louder, the chant building to a fever pitch. "Jack! Jack! Jack!"
He ran harder than he ever had before, the roar of cheers pounding in his ears as he crossed the goal line, raising the football high. The stadium exploded, confetti falling from the rafters, the lights blinking, the announcer's voice booming across, "And that's the game! The unstoppable, unbeatable, Jack Napier!"
There was the sound of a bang as Jack stepped inside; the door closed with a hollow bang that resounded throughout the quiet apartment. He flung his top onto the couch to reveal his thin frame pale under the dim light and ran a hand through his hair. He paused, listening to the soft sound of his mother's snoring coming from the other room. A faint smile danced across his features, and then he was gone into the kitchen, dragging a cold beer from the refrigerator.
He collapsed onto the worn couch, falling back as he popped open the beer, taking a long, slow pull. His other hand reached over, snatching up a battered notebook and flipping open the cover to a blank page. He looked around the room, taking in the little beat-up radio on a nearby shelf. Turning it on, he let low scratchy notes from some kind of jazz tune spill out and fill the air with a soft, moody rhythm.
The saxophone struck up slow and soulful, with the steady thump of a bass, and the snare whispering along in time. The singer's voice was rich, dark, a smoky baritone, crooning a longing twisted into obsession.
"Can't get you outta my head, no, you're stuck in my bones,
The harder I try, oh, the deeper it grows.
I'm caught in a rhythm, a dangerous game,
Can't tell if it's love or just fuelin' the flame…"
Jack shut his eyes, momentarily allowing the music to seep into him and fuel words within his mind. With a deep breath, his hand came down steadily to place the pen on the paper; ink flowed across the page as he wrote.
"Dear Father,"