Well, I was going to save Jack for last, but when the mood strikes you just got to write. This one isn't inspired by anything the actor said in an interview or even anything said in the movie. This idea just kind of came to me when I was opening a new pack of cards today. Of all the things I've wrote for Now You See Me, maybe even from every Fanfiction I've wrote, I think I'm the most proud of this one. It turned out exactly the way it was in my mind and I'm just proud of it and, trust me, that doesn't happen often.

I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I did writing it.

Disclaimer: Neither Jack Wilder nor Now You See Me belong to me.

Jack of Cards

They were the first present, the only real present, his family had ever given him. He was only six, but he wasn't stupid. He knew his family wasn't the average family. He knew the drinking and the shouting wasn't common among all family. He knew that other kids his age got real presents on their birthdays, not two months later as an off hand gesture to bribe him to keep his mouth shut about the things he had seen.

And he had seen a lot, more than anyone should ever see, let alone a six year old boy. He had seen his father drunk out of his mind, though he didn't know what being drunk meant. He had seen his mother bleeding and bruised from another beating his crazed uncle had given her. He had seen his older sister, the only one he had ever been close to, forced into a car and taken away to who-knows-where. He had seen the worst of human nature and had felt its wrath.

He knew the present, if it could be called that, wasn't purposefully given. He knew that if he hadn't seen his father mug that man in the alleyway he wouldn't ever been given anything. And yet he had, and as a bribe to keep his mouth shut, his father had given him the only real present he had ever received. They weren't much, but the brand new pack of playing cards from the coat of the man his father had mugged were more than enough.

He didn't open them right there. No, that would mean risking his father changing his mind and taking them back. He was only six, but he was smart, so he tucked the cards away into his ratty old coat that was a size too small for him and hurried back to the place he called home. He could feel the cards bouncing in the pocket, thumping gently against his chest. He reached the old apartment building, abandoned and condemned by the city, but his home until the wreckers came.

His uncle lay passed out on the coach; his mother was nowhere in sight and for that he was grateful. His mother tried to raise him right, he knew she did, but circumstances just wouldn't allow him the childhood he deserved. But he didn't think of that. It was the only way of life he knew, and he didn't dwell on the "what if's" of life, not yet, not at such a young age.

He ran into his mother in the hall. She held a small suitcase in her hand, the clothes hanging off her thin frame. She had tears in her eyes and a purple and blue bruise ran across her cheek. She jumped in fright when she saw her only remaining child standing in the hall before her. Tears poured from her eyes as she walked on shaking legs toward him.

"Mama?" He asked. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong, sweetie." She put on a smile, kneeling down before him. "Mommy just has to go away for a little while."

"Go where?" He questioned, reaching up to wipe the tears from her eyes.

"Just away." Her voice was choked as she held back sobs. "You be a good boy for Daddy until I get back, all right?"

"Yes Mama." He promised. "When are you coming back?"

"I don't know, baby." Tears poured from her eyes as she pulled her son to her and hugged him tight.

"Mommy, you're squeezing too tight!" He giggled, his voice muffled against his mother.

"I'm sorry, baby." She let go and kissed the top of his head. "I'm sorry."

"Bye Mommy!" He called cheerfully as she walked out of the hall and out of his life.

He didn't know that his life was to change forever that day. He didn't know that his mother was leaving him behind as she left to find a better life. He didn't know that the tears were for him, left behind to suffer. And what he didn't know didn't hurt him and he hurried on to the room he called his own. He shut the door behind him, locking it so no one could take his present away from him.

He went straight to the closet, hiding in the corner of it, and took out the pack of cards. He just held them for several minutes, admiring the clean white box and the shiny plastic as the light from a hole in the wall landed on it. Then he began to open them, slowly and carefully, almost with a reverent atmosphere. He didn't just tear into them. He opened the plastic slowly, finding the corner and peeling it back so the plastic came off in more-or-less one piece. He looked at the sticker sealing the box together, silently mouthing the words, but all he could make out were the words the and cards. He struggled to peel the sticker off, and was dismayed when part of the white was left behind.

Then the box was pulled open and the cards were in his hands. They were nice, nicer than any he had ever seen. They were blue with different designs decorating them and what looked like little boys with wings in the very center. He flipped the cards over and a smile broke across his face when he saw how white and clean they were. He loved the feel of them as he moved them around, the cards slipping between each other smoothly.

He lost track of time as he played with the cards, shuffling them again and again, enjoying the feel of them as they moved in his small hands. He studied the numbered sides, counting them over and over again, proud of his ability to count. He couldn't wait to show his mom when she came back. She would be proud of him, he knew. She was always urging him to learn to read and write and count.

The cards fell from his hand as the door to his room flew open, slamming into the wall and falling off its hinges. He jumped to his feet, pressing as far back into the shadows as he could. He could see his father standing in the doorway, his fists clenched and his eyes bloodshot. He looked around the room before his eyes fell on the closet. He walked over, throwing the closet door back. His son was in the corner, whimpering slightly in fear as his father roughly grabbed his shoulder and dragged him out of the closet.

"Where is she, boy?" He snarled.

"I…I d…don't kn…know, s…sir." The boy stuttered, fearful and in pain as his father's hand squeezed his shoulder.

"Don't lie to me!" His father barked, shaking him. "Tell me: where is your mother?"

"She just sa…said she was go…going away for a…a little while." Tears had sprung into his eyes as fear raced through him.

His shoulder was released, only for the hand that had held him to be brought back across his face, sending the boy to the floor. A red hand appeared almost immediately, and the child started shaking, trying to retreat against the floor in fear of the man who stood above him.

"It's your fault." His father's voice was low, dangerous, and his fists were clenching and unclenching in his anger. "It's your fault she left me. If you had never been born she wouldn't have turned against me. She would still be here!"

"Daddy," The boy cried, not understanding. "You're scaring me."

His father didn't reply, just lashed out with his fury. It was the first night that the boy felt the true anger of the world. He couldn't keep track of how many hits, how many kicks, he took until his father finally grew tired of beating his helpless son and left him, bruised and only half-conscious on the dirty floor of the condemned apartment. He didn't know how long he laid there, the pain of the beating not even registering in his mind it was so excruciating.

It wasn't until hours later that he managed to drag himself over to the closet where his cards lay scattered in the dirt. He reached out, hand trembling, and took one at random. He leaned up against the wall, pulling his knees up to his chest, and looked down at the card. It was black, with the face of man on it. In the corner was the letter J. The boy knew the card from watching his father and uncle play poker late in the night when he should have been sleeping. A jack they had called it.

It was fate, he later decided, that he had picked that card to hold that night. It was that night, as he lay curled up in the closet in pain, that he made the decision that would guide his entire life. The cards were all he had left in the world, his most prized possessions. And he would make his life out of those cards. He would use them, study them, learn them until he was the best, the jack of all trades. He would be Jack Wilder, the jack of cards.