Jack sat slumped on the couch, shirtless, eyes glazed as he stared blankly at the flickering TV in front of him. The soft hum of the TV filled the room as a host, Mark Richards, rambled on about the recent rally.
"The Thomas Wayne Mental Health Rally was a resounding success," the host announced cheerily. "Thomas Wayne himself spoke at length about the importance of supporting those struggling with mental health."
The camera cut to a clip of Thomas on stage, smiling, his voice smooth and polished as ever. "This rally was only the beginning. We've made significant strides, and we'll continue to make sure every person in Gotham has access to the care they need."
Jack's eyes narrowed, the smile on Thomas's face twisting something inside him. He picked up a lighter from the table, flicking it on and off absentmindedly before pressing the flame to the skin of his forearm. The searing pain was sharp, but Jack didn't flinch. He just stared at the burn, watching as the skin bubbled and darkened, the heat grounding him in a way nothing else could.
Knock, knock, knock.
The sound pulled Jack out of his daze. He blinked, looking toward the door. Slowly, he stood up, his mind still foggy, the pain in his arm dull now. He shuffled over and opened the door.
Eddie and Marty stood there, looking almost casual, like they were just dropping by for a chat. Marty nodded as he walked in, giving Jack a quick greeting. "Hey, man."
Eddie grinned, stepping in behind him. "Jackie boy, how's it going?"
Jack just stared at them, especially Eddie, his expression unreadable. He didn't respond right away, just stepped aside, letting them enter.
They talked for a bit—small talk, Marty flipping through Jack's things as if they'd all known each other forever. But Jack barely said a word, his mind somewhere else, his gaze constantly drifting to Eddie.
Eventually, Eddie cleared his throat, glancing over at Marty before looking back at Jack. "Hey, uh… can we talk for a second? About that… thing?"
Jack raised an eyebrow but nodded slowly, walking over to a small table in the corner of the room. Eddie followed, his voice dropping to a more serious tone. "Look, I wanted to apologize. Things got kinda crazy back then, you know? But I see you now, man. You're going places. You're doing big things, and I'm happy for you."
Jack's eyes flicked up, staring at Eddie through narrowed eyes. He let out a small, bitter laugh. "You think I'm happy? You think all of this… it's what I wanted?"
Eddie hesitated, taken aback. "Well, I mean… you've come a long way. Look at you. The whole city's talking about you."
Jack didn't answer. He turned, walking over to a drawer, opening it, and pulling out the gun Eddie had given him a long time ago. He held it up, staring at it for a moment before walking back and handing it to Eddie. "Here. Maybe you should take it back."
Eddie chuckled, a little nervous now, taking the gun with a smirk. "What, you don't need it anymore? You're too big for this now?"
But before Eddie could turn away, Jack's grin twisted, and in an instant, he lunged at Eddie, grabbing him by the throat and driving him back into the wall. The gun clattered to the floor as Jack's hands tightened around Eddie's neck, his face contorted with rage.
"What the hell, Jack—" Eddie gasped, struggling to break free. His eyes widened as Jack's grip tightened, the crazed look in Jack's eyes sending a wave of panic through him.
Marty stood frozen, watching the struggle with wide eyes, unsure of what to do. He stepped forward hesitantly. "Jack, man, stop! What the hell are you doing?"
But Jack didn't listen. His breaths came in ragged gasps, his mind consumed with a whirlwind of anger and betrayal. He had trusted Eddie once. Now, all he saw was a man who had tried to control him, to use him. And Jack wasn't about to let that happen again.
Eddie flailed, trying to push Jack off, but Jack only tightened his hold, his nails digging into Eddie's skin as he snarled, his voice low and guttural. "You think I need you? You think you're still in control?"
Marty finally rushed forward, grabbing Jack by the shoulders, trying to pull him off Eddie. "Jack, stop! You're gonna kill him!"
Jack snarled as Eddie, in a desperate move, backed him up against the wall, pinning him there, using his weight to try and gain control of the situation. But Jack's fingers dug deep into Eddie's neck, his nails drawing blood as Eddie let out a strangled grunt. The chaos of the moment had taken over—Jack couldn't hear anything except the rush of blood in his ears, the pounding in his chest. He needed to end this.
With one swift motion, Jack's hand shot down, grabbing the gun from the floor. He didn't hesitate. The shot rang out, a sharp crack in the confined space. Eddie gasped, his eyes widening in shock as he looked down at his gut, blood beginning to pour from the wound.
For a brief second, Eddie was stunned, his body going slack from the pain. Jack took his chance. He lunged forward, slamming Eddie's head into the wall with a sickening thud. Blood splattered as Jack pulled him back, only to slam his head into the wall again. And again. And again.
Marty cried out, his voice barely audible over the violence, "Jack! Stop! Please—Jesus, stop!"
But Jack couldn't stop. His face was twisted into a grotesque grin, the sounds of bone and flesh smashing against the wall echoing in the room as he crushed Eddie's skull, over and over. Blood poured down the wall, pooling at their feet as Eddie's body went limp. But Jack didn't care. He kept going, the rage and adrenaline pushing him forward.
Marty sobbed in the background, his voice hoarse from crying, begging Jack to stop, but Jack's mind was lost in the moment, consumed by the darkness that had taken over. His arms ached, but he slammed Eddie's head into the wall one last time, the skull cracking under the pressure, leaving a trail of red behind.
And then, finally, it was over.
Jack stepped back, breathing heavily, staring down at Eddie's lifeless, mangled body. The room was silent now, except for the quiet sobs of Marty, who was backed into a corner, trembling in fear. Jack's chest heaved as he wiped blood from his face, his eyes wild and unfocused.
Jack sat in front of Ms. Greene, his fists clenched.
I'm so done trying to be what everyone else wants from me," he spat, his voice cracking with a strange mix of anger and exhaustion. "I'm so fucking done!"
Ms. Greene sat across from him, her face carefully composed, though her eyes betrayed a flicker of fear. "Jack," she said softly, her voice steady but cautious, "we just want to help you. That's all we've ever wanted. You need to let us in."
Jack's lip curled into a sneer, his body tense as he leaned forward, shaking his head slowly. "No," he growled. "You don't get it. None of you do. It's all a joke. I'm done pretending. Done listening. I'm free now, don't you see that?"
Ms. Greene held his gaze, her voice calm despite the intensity in his eyes. "You think this is freedom, Jack? Hurting people, losing control? That's not freedom. That's chaos."
Jack laughed, a hollow, broken sound. "Chaos is the only thing that makes sense! It's the only thing that's real." His voice lowered, his eyes narrowing. "I've tried playing by the rules. I tried being what they wanted, but now?" He paused, shaking his head. "Now I don't have to. Now I'm finally in control."
Ms. Greene didn't flinch, but her tone softened. "Jack, you're not in control. Not really. But you can be. Let us help you. We're still here for you."
Jack stared at her, his breath coming in heavy bursts. For a moment, something flickered across his face—doubt, confusion—but it quickly disappeared, replaced by that twisted grin once more.
He leaned back in his chair, arms spread wide, staring up at the ceiling. "Help me?" he muttered to himself. "Maybe I don't want help. Maybe I don't need it."
Jack sat there, chest heaving, laughter bubbling up in his throat, staring down at Marty, who was frozen in place, eyes wide in horror. Marty's gaze was locked on Eddie's mangled corpse, blood pooling around his head, the life drained from his body.
"Oh my god…" Marty whispered, voice trembling, barely audible. "He's… he's fucking dead." His voice broke. "Why, Jack? Why would you do that? He didn't—he didn't deserve that."
Jack's laughter grew louder, more manic, filling the room. "Come on, man, stop," he cackled, slamming his hands into his lap, the sound sharp and erratic. "He used me, Marty. That piece of shit—he's a killer!" Jack leaned forward, eyes wide, his grin stretched impossibly wide. "A killer, Marty! A fucking KILLER, MAN!"
Marty trembled, backing away from Eddie's body, his hands shaking as he pressed them to his mouth. "Jack… what the fuck, man? You killed him… he's dead. He's fucking dead!"
Jack just stared at him, still grinning, his eyes wild and bloodshot. "He deserved it, Marty," Jack spat, his voice crackling with madness. "He thought he was in control, thought he could use me, but I showed him. I showed him who the real killer is!" He laughed again, slapping his hands against his legs, the sound echoing in the room like a twisted drumbeat.
Marty sobbed, his body trembling with fear, staring at Jack like he was a monster. "Oh my god… oh my god, I need to get out of here…"
Jack's laughter slowed, his grin softening into something almost… calm. He leaned back, gesturing toward the door with a casual wave of his hand. "Go on, Marty," he said, voice eerily calm now. "I'll let you go, man. You don't have to stay. I'm not gonna hurt you. You're free to go."
Marty stood there, frozen, his eyes darting between Jack and Eddie's lifeless body. He took a shaky step toward the door, then another, never taking his eyes off Jack.
"Just go, man," Jack whispered, a twisted grin still playing on his lips. "I won't stop you. You can leave."
Marty hesitated for a moment longer, then bolted, his footsteps echoing down the hallway as Jack's laughter followed him, bouncing off the walls like the final punchline to a joke only Jack understood.
He sat there, alone now, his hands still stained with blood, the grin never leaving his face. "Go on, Marty," he muttered to himself. "Just… go." Jack turned his head, staring at the TV.
The news kept looping, endlessly going on about that man, Thomas Wayne—the so-called savior of Gotham. The liar. The user. Jack's jaw clenched, his fists tight, his whole body buzzing with rage as the image of Thomas, smiling in front of the cameras, filled the screen.
"He used me," Jack whispered, his voice trembling with fury. "That fucking liar."
Something snapped inside him. He shot up from the couch, his movements quick, almost mechanical, as he threw on a suit. His hands shook as he buttoned it up, his mind swirling with a singular, burning thought. This wasn't over. Not by a long shot.
The clown makeup came next. Jack applied it carefully, the wide grin painted across his face, so fitting—so perfect. The reflection in the mirror wasn't Jack anymore. It was Joker, and this was his moment. He tucked a gun into the back of his pants, feeling the cold metal press against his skin. This was it. This was the punchline.
Jack stood outside the talk show studio, his heart pounding, his breath uneven as he tried to get in through the front. But security blocked his way, eyes cold and unflinching.
"Hey, I need to get in," Jack said, his voice jittery, trying to hold it together.
"No ticket, no entry," the guard said flatly.
Jack's grin faltered for a second, but then it returned—wider, more dangerous. He turned and slipped around the back, finding a side entrance, the alley dark and damp. He forced the door open, sneaking in, slipping through the hallways of the studio. No one noticed him—no one cared to. That was always the way, wasn't it?
He could hear the laughter now, echoing from the live audience, the talk show host cracking jokes, feeding them the easy lines. Comedy, entertainment—the illusion of normalcy. Jack's fingers twitched as he found his way into the studio, slipping into the back of the audience, blending in. The lights, the noise—it all blurred together. It was so loud, but it felt distant, like it was happening in another world.
But he wasn't there to laugh.
Mark glanced up from his desk, the cameras focused on him, and then his eyes fell on Jack. Recognition flickered in his face, just for a moment. "Hey, isn't that—wait, I know you! You were at the rally with Thomas Wayne, right?"
Jack stood up, the weight of his words already pressing on his chest, the heat rising in him. He grinned—wide, too wide. "Yeah, that's right," he said, his voice cutting through the audience's murmurs. "I was at the rally. The rally for the liar. The one who made all of you believe he was some kind of hero."
Mark's face froze, his smile faltering as he exchanged glances with his crew, unsure of what to do. The audience grew quiet, sensing the tension, but Jack continued, his voice growing louder.
"He used me," Jack spat, taking a step forward. "You think this society cares about us? You think they give a damn about any of us? They use us. They chew us up and spit us out. And when we're broken—when we're no longer useful—they abandon us."
Mark held up his hands, trying to calm the situation, his voice shaky. "Alright, let's… let's take a breather. We're all friends here, right? No need for—"
"Friends?" Jack barked out a laugh, stepping closer to the stage, his voice echoing through the silent room. "You think I have friends? You think any of you care about what I have to say? No. You just want your show. You want your laughs. You want your fucking distractions."
The tension in the room reached a boiling point. The audience was no longer chuckling—they were shifting uncomfortably, some whispering to each other, some staring wide-eyed at the spectacle unfolding before them. But Jack didn't stop.
"You all think I'm just some joke," Jack continued, his voice manic, his eyes wild. "But this world, this society—it's the real joke. And I'm done pretending. I'm done playing along."
Mark was visibly sweating now, his smile long gone. He motioned to the side, signaling security, but before they could react, Jack reached into his back pocket, pulling out the gun.
The crowd gasped, some screamed, others froze in place, eyes locked on the gun.
"I've got your attention now, don't I?" Jack said, his voice eerily calm as he raised the gun, pointing it toward the host. "It's funny how quickly people start to listen when you have something like this."
The cameras were still rolling, capturing every second, every breath, every movement. The world was watching. And Jack knew it.
He smiled, staring directly into the camera. "You wanted a joke, didn't you? Well, here's your fucking punchline."
BANG! He fired directly into Mark's face. The gunshot rang out like a thunderclap, the sound ripping through the studio. Blood splattered across the desk and stage as Mark's body crumpled backward, his face obliterated by the blast. The audience screamed, chaos erupting in the room as people scrambled to escape, the shrieks of horror blending with the ringing in Jack's ears.
But Jack didn't move. He stood there, breathing heavily, staring at the lifeless body of the man who had tried to placate him, tried to calm him down. The joke was over.