The room was dim, the faint flicker of fluorescent lights casting shadows across the walls. Jack sat slouched in the chair, his eyes distant, staring at his therapist through a haze of smoke that drifted lazily through the air. He barely noticed it anymore.
Jack's eyes scanned over to the name on the desk. 'Dr. Greene'.
Dr. Greene cleared her throat, shuffling a stack of papers, her expression stoic, eyes focused on the documents as she spoke. "Your trial is in a few weeks," she said, her voice calm, almost clinical. "The charges are extensive: multiple counts of murder, assault, destruction of property." She looked up, meeting Jack's gaze for a moment, then back down at the file. "You're also facing charges of evading law enforcement and… well, creating public disturbances, to put it mildly."
Jack's eyes didn't move; he just kept staring at her, a strange half-smile pulling at his lips, like he was listening to a song only he could hear.
Dr. Greene flipped through another page, continuing, "The prosecution will argue for the maximum sentence, of course, which, given the severity and number of charges, would be life in prison—if not the death penalty. The court's likely to agree on that, given the publicity and the nature of the crimes." She paused, glancing at him, perhaps expecting a reaction, but Jack remained silent.
She leaned forward, her face softening just slightly. "There's talk of an insanity defense. Your legal team believes that if we can prove your mental state at the time of the offenses, they might reduce your sentence or at least spare you from the death penalty. But it will require you to cooperate—meaning you'll have to talk, Jack. Talk to me, talk to them."
She let the words hang in the air, watching him for any sign of response. When none came, she sighed, continuing, "If you're declared insane, you'll likely remain here, in Arkham, for the foreseeable future. You'd avoid death row, but… this place would be your home. It's the best option they can offer you, Jack. They're looking for something they can use—some explanation, any piece of evidence that shows why."
She leaned back, folding her hands over the file, her eyes studying him. "You understand, don't you? The judge, the jury, the world—they're all going to look at you and want to see remorse. They'll want a reason. They'll want to understand why you did what you did."
Jack finally shifted, leaning forward slightly, his smile widening as he stared at her.
Jack's laughter echoed through the room, a sharp, hollow sound. "They don't want me," he said, his voice rising. "They want the joke that makes 'em feel something—makes 'em feel alive."
Dr. Greene's shoulders slumped as she sighed. "Jack, you need to understand, showing up as this… this 'Joker' persona? It's only going to hurt you more."
Jack shook his head, his laughter growing louder, almost manic. He took a long drag from his cigarette, grinning as he exhaled. "They've waited long enough, Doc," he muttered, grinding the cigarette into the ashtray, leaving a trail of smoke behind. "Might as well give 'em what they want, right?"
Jack stood backstage, staring at his reflection in the cracked mirror. His makeup was perfect—painted on with a careful hand, the smile wide and frozen on his face, but his hands shook. Jean was next to him, her arm resting on his shoulder, offering a soft, reassuring smile.
"You're gonna be fine," she whispered, her voice warm and confident. "Just be yourself out there. They're gonna love you, Jack."
Jack nodded, swallowing hard, the lump in his throat stubborn. His heart pounded in his chest, but he forced himself to smile—really smile. He had to get through this. Thomas had pulled some strings to get him this gig, a small club, an intimate crowd. It wasn't much, but it was a start. Maybe the start of something bigger.
The sound of murmurs and clinking glasses drifted in from the stage. Jack took a deep breath, glancing one last time at Jean, who gave him a quick pat on the back.
"Go knock 'em dead, Joker."
Jack stepped out onto the small, dimly lit stage, the spotlight hitting him like a sledgehammer. He squinted against the harsh light, scanning the crowd. A couple dozen people, scattered at round tables, their faces barely visible in the shadows. They weren't exactly the most lively bunch, but Jack forced his way to the mic, gripping it tightly.
"Hey, hey, everyone!" he started, his voice too loud, too eager. He cleared his throat, chuckling nervously. "Good to see you all here tonight. I mean, where else can you go in Gotham and get mugged for free after the show, right?"
A few awkward chuckles rippled through the crowd, but mostly, they just stared. Jack tugged at his collar, his fingers twitching. This wasn't going how he'd pictured. He shifted, trying again.
"So… you ever think Gotham's a real piece of work, huh? I mean, where else can you get overcharged for a hot dog while watching a pigeon fight a rat?" He forced a laugh, but the crowd was still, a few scattered grins, but mostly just blank stares.
Jack's chest tightened, sweat beading at his temples. He could feel the weight of their eyes on him, heavy and uninterested. His mind raced—this wasn't working. He was losing them. He was supposed to be funny. He was supposed to be more than this.
He stuck to his script, fumbling through a few more jokes, each one landing softer than the last. A cough from the back. A few whispers. The silence was starting to crush him.
And then, something snapped. He felt it—an electric jolt that hit him all at once, a voice in the back of his head whispering, Screw the script.
Jack grinned, the kind of grin that felt real for the first time all night. He leaned into the mic, his eyes glinting under the spotlight. "You know what's funny?" he said, his voice dropping to a lower, more deliberate tone. "I'm out here trying to make you laugh, but I realized something… you people are the real joke."
The crowd shifted, a few eyebrows raising, but Jack didn't stop.
"That's right. You sit here, stone-faced, staring at me like I'm the crazy one. But look at you! You're in Gotham, and you actually think your life's under control? You think you're safe because you're not the one up here?" His voice grew louder, more confident. "Guess what—none of us are safe! The whole city's a freakin' madhouse, and you're just another part of the circus."
There was a moment of tense silence. Then, slowly, a few laughs—real laughs—bubbled up from the crowd. Jack felt it, a warmth spreading in his chest. He hadn't planned that. He hadn't needed to. They were laughing because it was true.
He grinned wider, leaning forward, riding the wave of energy. "You know, the best part about this city? No matter how bad it gets, no matter how deep the hole is, people still find a way to lie to themselves. 'Oh, I'll be fine, I'll make it through.' You're not fine. None of us are! But hey, at least we can laugh about it, right?"
The crowd was laughing now—genuinely laughing. Not just polite chuckles, but the kind of laughter that echoed through the room, sharp and unfiltered. Jack's heart raced, his pulse pounding in his ears. He felt alive.
He kept going, the jokes flowing now, off-script, raw and biting. The crowd responded to every line, every twisted punchline. And Jack—he soaked it in. For the first time, they were really seeing him. Not as a joke, not as something to ignore. They were listening, they were laughing, and it made him feel like he was finally in control.
He wrapped up the set, riding the high as the applause filled the room. The sound was everything he'd ever wanted.
The light of a hotel bathroom flickered slightly.
"You alright?" Jean asked softly, almost hesitant. "This is big." Her voice cut through the air, and Jack had been staring blankly in the mirror for a while now.
Jack turned to her, makeup fully on, his smile stretching wide. "I'm more than a joke now," he said, his voice calm, sure. "Today… I'll finally show them."
He walked outside, and the distant sound of honking grew louder as he stepped from the hotel entrance. The place was extravagant compared to where he'd been before, a stark contrast that brought a smirk to his face. Thomas was waiting by the car, arms open, a proud grin spreading across his face.
"You ready for this, son?" Thomas asked, giving him a firm pat on the shoulder. "It's a big day."
Jack looked him in the eye, his own smile unwavering. "I'm ready."
December 1st
Thomas Wayne Mental Health Rally II
Crowds gathered, waiting, as the stage was prepared.
As the car rolled through the streets, the distant hum of the rally growing louder, Jack stared out the window, the lights of the city blurring past. He turned, watching Thomas as the car came to a stop, and saw him preparing to get out, straightening his jacket, looking every bit the polished figure he always was.
"Hey," Jack said suddenly, voice cutting through the quiet. Thomas paused, looking back at him.
"Yeah?" Thomas replied, eyebrow raised.
Jack leaned forward, his eyes gleaming with something between excitement and unease. "Can you do something for me?"
Thomas hesitated for a moment, then nodded. "Of course. What is it?"
Jack smiled, his lips pulling back into that wide, familiar grin. "Can you have them introduce me as 'Joker'? I mean, that'd be most fitting, right? The idea that I can be more than just some joke? More than… Jack."
Thomas stared at him, the request hanging in the air between them. He seemed to weigh it for a moment, studying Jack's face, and then he nodded slowly, giving a small, almost uncertain smile.
"Sure, Jack—uh, Joker. I can do that for you."
Jack's grin widened, satisfaction settling in as he leaned back in his seat. "Good. That's all I needed to hear."
The rally buzzed with energy, crowds gathered beneath the banners for Thomas Wayne's Mental Health Initiative. The excitement in the air was palpable as Thomas and Jack—now fully made up as Joker—stepped up to the stage. The lights hit them, and the crowd's cheers erupted. Jack felt a strange energy coursing through him, but he kept quiet, standing just behind Thomas, letting the moment build.
Thomas raised a hand to quiet the crowd, his voice commanding, yet smooth. "Thank you, thank you. Today, we're here to talk about something that affects us all—mental health. And standing with me is someone who understands the power of a second chance. Someone who, like so many, has felt the weight of the world, but also knows that with the right support, we can lift that weight."
He gestured toward Jack, who stood motionless, his painted face and wide grin catching the crowd's attention. Jack said nothing, his eyes flicking across the faces staring back at him. He could feel their curiosity, their fascination.
"This man," Thomas continued, "has come from a place of pain, but he's standing here as a symbol of hope. Of change. You see, it's easy to laugh at what we don't understand—to dismiss someone as just a 'joke' when in reality, they're crying out for help. But we can do better. We must do better."
The crowd murmured in agreement, many of them nodding along. Jack remained silent, his heart racing as he listened to Thomas speak, using him as a prop, a symbol for the crowd to latch onto.
"We are calling this new initiative The Joker Program." Thomas smiled, soaking in the applause. "A program designed to help those who have fallen through the cracks, people like Joker here, who need not just medicine, but understanding. This is our chance to take the pain, the loneliness, and the confusion—and turn it into something real. Something that can help all of us."
The crowd erupted into cheers, and Thomas grinned, clasping Jack on the shoulder. Jack stared ahead, the applause washing over him, his mind swirling. The crowd seemed to love this—love him. The name Joker was catching on, their faces lighting up with the idea of something new, something different.
But Jack barely registered it.
Backstage, the noise of the rally was distant, muffled through the heavy curtains. Thomas turned to Jack, patting him on the back. "You did great out there, really kept it together," he said, smiling warmly. "I'm proud of you for staying calm."
Jack stared ahead, silent for a moment. Then he spoke softly, almost absentmindedly, "Thanks… Dad."
Thomas blinked, caught off guard. "What did you say?"
Jack turned to him, his smile widening, but his eyes were sharp. "I said, thanks, Dad." The word hung in the air, heavy and charged.
Thomas chuckled nervously, brushing it off at first. "Well, I suppose we did have quite the father-son moment out there, huh?"
But Jack's expression didn't change. He stepped closer, voice low, serious. "No. I mean it, Thomas. You're my father. My real father."
Thomas froze, the smile slipping from his face. "What? What are you talking about?"
"My mom," Jack said, his voice rising, a frantic edge creeping in. "She told me. She worked for you. She told me you two were together. That I'm your son. Your son, Thomas."
Thomas frowned, confusion and disbelief flashing across his face. "Your mother… who—who was your mother?"
Jack's grin faltered for a moment, replaced by something darker, more desperate. "You know who she is," he insisted, his voice shaking now. "Penny Napier."
"Penny Napier?" Thomas repeated, his voice rising, disbelief and frustration creeping in. "That unhinged woman who worked for me years ago? Jack, she wasn't well. She was unstable, paranoid—she was delusional! She came up with stories, lies, accusations. She told anyone who'd listen that we had some kind of relationship. She had to be fired. For good reason."
Jack blinked, his smile faltering, a flicker of doubt crossing his face, but he pushed it down, stepping closer to Thomas, his voice trembling. "No, no… she told me, Thomas. She said you loved her. You're my father, I know it. I feel it."
Thomas scoffed, the frustration building in his chest, and he took a step back, shaking his head. "Jack, listen to me—your mother was sick. She wasn't thinking clearly. She made up this whole fantasy to cope with whatever she was going through. I never had a relationship with her. You understand? None of it was real."
Jack's eyes flared, his breathing quickening as he stared at Thomas, his voice growing more desperate. "You're lying. You're just ashamed of me, ashamed that I turned out like this." He clenched his fists, his words tumbling out, raw and shaky. "You don't want to admit it, but I know the truth. I am your son."
Thomas's expression hardened further, his patience wearing thin. "No, Jack. No, you're not," he said, his voice sharp. "I'm sorry for whatever she told you, but it wasn't real. I had nothing to do with her, and I am not your father."
The words hit Jack like a punch to the gut, and for a moment, he stood there, speechless. His eyes widened, a manic energy building behind them as he processed Thomas's words. His mouth twitched, struggling to find the right response, the right way to make Thomas understand.
"You… you're wrong," Jack said, his voice shaking, but his smile was back, wider, more strained. "You're wrong, Thomas. This was supposed to be our moment. We were doing so well together! The rally—the people—they love this, don't you see?" He stepped forward, his hands gesturing wildly. "They love me. They love the Joker!"
Thomas let out a bitter laugh, his face filled with anger now. "Love? Jack, they don't love you. They're entertained. You're a spectacle, a novelty. This whole 'Joker' thing… it's not real. It's a costume, a mask. You're hiding behind it, just like she did with her stories."
Jack's grin froze, the words hitting him harder than anything before. His breathing grew shallow, and for a moment, it was like everything was unraveling in front of him. But he couldn't let that happen. He couldn't lose this. Not now.
"You don't get it!" Jack snapped, his voice rising, eyes wide with desperation. "This is my chance, Thomas. My chance to finally be seen. To be more than just a joke. To be someone. And you—you're the key to all of this. You're my father!"
Thomas shook his head again, stepping back toward the door. "Jack, I'm done with this. I'm done playing along with your delusions. I wanted this rally for mental health, for people who need help. But this… this has gone too far. You're deranged, Jack. You're a joke."
"No, no, no!" Jack shouted, his voice cracking as he stepped toward Thomas, hands outstretched like he was trying to physically hold him there. "Don't leave. You can't leave, we were doing so well! We were going to change everything, together!"
Jack's breath hitched, his hands trembling as Thomas reached for the doorknob. His vision blurred as reality set in, the truth of the moment crashing down on him. He had tried to hold on, to keep the illusion alive, but now it was slipping through his fingers, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.
As Thomas opened the door, Jack's voice came out small, almost pleading. "Wait… please don't go."
But Thomas didn't stop. He stepped through the door, walking away without a second glance, leaving Jack alone in the room, staring at the empty space where his last chance had just disappeared.
For a moment, there was only silence. Jack's heart raced, his mind spinning, trying to piece together what had just happened. And then, slowly, that familiar, unsettling smile crept across his face.
His manic energy faltered for just a moment, replaced by a gnawing sense of doubt. Thomas's words echoed in his head, louder and louder: "Penny Napier… she was sick. Delusional." The certainty Jack had felt just minutes ago began to unravel. He gritted his teeth, staring after Thomas as he disappeared through the door.
Jack's laughter continued to echo as he made his way through the crowded streets, his face twisted in a manic grin. A few people recognized him from the rally, whispering excitedly or staring wide-eyed as he passed, but he didn't care. The world around him was a blur of faces and voices, none of it sinking in. Everything felt too fast, too unreal. He had one destination in mind now: Arkham.
He shoved his way through the crowded sidewalks, his heart pounding louder with each step. The laughter in his chest rose and fell, like waves crashing against his ribs. As he neared Arkham Asylum, his pace quickened, his breaths coming in sharp, uneven gasps. The imposing structure loomed ahead, cold and grey, almost suffocating beneath the dark clouds gathering overhead.
He burst through the front doors, pushing past people in the waiting room, ignoring the annoyed muttering and confused looks that followed. His mind was too full, spinning with questions and fragments of the past. He couldn't stop now.
"Penny Napier. Her records."
The man at the desk hesitated, clearly unsettled by Jack's frantic energy, but after a moment, he relented and began searching. Jack's breath hitched as he watched the man's fingers dance across the keys, the tension unbearable. His heart pounded in his chest, the edges of his vision blurring. He needed this. He needed to know.
After what felt like an eternity, the man paused, staring at the screen, his eyes narrowing. Jack could feel the shift in the air.
"According to our records," the man said slowly, almost cautiously, "Penny Napier was checked into Arkham… shortly after she was fired from Wayne Enterprises." He clicked through a few more pages, his voice lowering. "She was admitted for mental health reasons—delusions, paranoia. It looks like… she stayed here for quite a while."
Jack's head swam. His knees felt weak, and he grabbed the edge of the desk to steady himself. Checked in? He couldn't breathe, the room around him spinning. He stared at the man, barely processing the words. Thomas had been right? His mother had been here, locked away for her delusions?
"Is there more?" Jack asked, his voice barely above a whisper, trembling with fear and anger.
The man clicked through more records, then nodded, his face grim. "Yes. According to this, she claimed she had a relationship with Thomas Wayne. It's all noted here in her psychiatric evaluations—delusions of grandeur, an imagined affair. She… she wasn't well."
Jack's mind raced. The ground felt like it was falling out beneath him. Everything he thought he knew—everything—was built on a lie. His mother had been ill, her stories a twisted creation of her broken mind. She wasn't telling the truth.
And then the realization hit him like a truck. SHE FUCKING LIED.
Jack staggered back from the desk, his hands trembling as his mind tried to catch up with the truth. The weight of it crashed down on him all at once. His whole life… everything he had believed, the anger, the pain—it had all been based on a lie his mother had fed him.
The laughter bubbled up in his throat, uncontrollable. He bent over, clutching his stomach, his cackles filling the quiet of the asylum lobby as he stumbled away from the desk. He couldn't stop laughing, couldn't stop the sound from bursting out of him.
The truth was almost too much to bear, but the joke? The joke was on him.
As he stumbled out into the cold night air, the laughter still rattling his chest, Jack—no, Joker—felt something else creeping in: a twisted, horrible kind of freedom.
Jack stood in front a quiet, unassuming building. A sign out front read Shady Pines Care Home. The night air was thick with silence, save for the occasional rustle of leaves. He stared at the front door, feeling a hollow pit in his stomach, but he walked forward. He had to see her.
Thomas had ensured she'd be cared for here, tucked away while Jack focused on the rally—on becoming something more. But now, knowing what he knew, everything felt wrong.
Jack entered the home, the receptionist giving him a brief, polite nod before he asked, "I'm here to see Penny Napier."
The woman checked her clipboard, glancing up with a hint of recognition before nodding. "Room 23. Go ahead."
Jack walked down the quiet hall, the scent of disinfectant thick in the air. His steps echoed softly as he reached the door and pushed it open. There she was—Penny Napier—lying in a bed, frail and distant. Her once-bright eyes were dim, staring off into some distant memory.
She looked up when the door creaked, her face lighting up with a weak but familiar smile. "Oh, Jackie… how was the rally?" she asked, her voice soft, almost childlike, as if she had no concept of time or the reality around her.
Jack stood there, his chest tight, forcing a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "It was about as well as it could have gone, Ma," he replied quietly, moving to sit in a chair in the corner of the room. The air was heavy, the hum of the machines hooked up to her the only sound breaking the silence.
Penny smiled weakly, sinking back into her pillow. "I'm so proud of you, Jackie. I knew you'd make something of yourself." She closed her eyes for a moment, lost in her own world. "Just like your father would have wanted."
Jack sat there for a while, the quiet stretching between them like an endless void. He pulled out a cigarette, lighting it with a flick of his lighter, the flame briefly illuminating the hollow expression on his face. He took a long drag, the smoke swirling around him as he exhaled, staring at the frail figure of his mother lying on the bed.
"You know, Ma," he began, his voice low, almost conversational, "the past couple of days have been a real ride." He chuckled softly, more to himself than to her, taking another drag. "I've felt so much. Anger, confusion, betrayal. Everything I thought I knew, everything you told me… it's all a fucking lie."
Penny's eyes fluttered open again, her gaze drifting to him, but it was clear she wasn't really there. She gave him a tired smile, as if she hadn't heard the words.
Jack leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, the cigarette dangling between his fingers. "But honestly? It's kinda funny when you think about it. My whole life, built around this idea that I was someone special. That I mattered. That I was your son and Thomas Wayne's son, meant for something big." He laughed, the sound hollow and bitter. "Turns out, I'm just another joke. Another punchline."
He took a final drag from the cigarette, his eyes narrowing as he stared at her. "But you know what, Ma? It's almost freeing. This whole thing, it's a fucking joke, and I'm done running from it. It's all I've got left, so why fight it?"
Jack stood up suddenly, the chair scraping loudly against the floor as he tossed the cigarette to the ground. He walked over to her bedside, eyes fixed on her, and gently pulled the pillow from under her head.
"And honestly," he said quietly, his voice now calm, almost soothing, "I don't even want to run from it anymore."
He looked down at her, the soft rise and fall of her chest, the frailness of her form. Then, slowly, deliberately, Jack placed the pillow over her face, pressing down.
For a moment, everything was quiet. The world seemed to stop. There was no more laughter, no more jokes, no more lies. Just silence.
Jack walked through the dimly lit apartment complex, his footsteps echoing off the cracked concrete walls. His mind raced, but he kept going, each step bringing him closer to Jean's door. He could still see her face in his mind—kind, warm, the way she had always been. His fingers trembled slightly as he raised his hand and knocked on the door.
A few moments later, the door creaked open, and there she was: Jean. But something was off. She didn't smile. Her eyes weren't filled with the softness he remembered. Instead, they were wide with confusion, her face tensed, almost suspicious.
Jack leaned in without thinking, going to kiss her like it was natural, like they'd done it a thousand times before. But before he got close, she pushed back hard, her voice sharp. "What the fuck?"
Jack blinked, stumbling back a step, utterly confused. "Jean? What's wrong?" He looked at her, the cigarette hanging loosely from his lips, his mind scrambling to make sense of her reaction. "Is everything alright?"
Jean's face twisted into something between fear and disbelief. She stared at him like he was a stranger. "What the fuck—I don't even know you."
Jack froze. His mind blanked, his chest tightening as he stared at her, the reality of her words hitting him like a brick. I don't even know you.
"It felt so damn real," he muttered, almost to himself, as if the world was slipping through his fingers.
Jean stared at him, her fear now mixed with confusion. "What… what are you talking about?" she asked, stepping back toward the door, her hand hovering near the knob, ready to close it at any moment.
Jack's smile faded, replaced by a flicker of panic. He stared at her, the weight of his delusions crashing down all at once. "I—I'm sorry," he stammered, his voice cracking. "I don't know what's happening."
Without waiting for a response, he turned and bolted down the hallway, his footsteps frantic as he ran, the laughter echoing behind him. Jean stood there, stunned, her hand gripping the doorframe as she called after him.
"Hey! I'm gonna call the police!" she shouted, but Jack was already gone, disappearing down the hall.