The air was cool. Light snow was falling over the shadowed city, leaving a frosty layer of shining flakes on the ground. The ground itself was grimy, the dirt slick and the smell revolting. Black soot covered the walls, creating the illusion of the entire city being black and lifeless. But one building stood out among the others. One building was resistant to such shadows. In the centre of the city, Wayne Enterprises stood tall and clean like the city's only hope for redemption. The shadows shied away from it, settling instead upon the shoulders of the much less fortunate.
Jack was one of these people. He stared through the buildings toward Wayne Enterprises, cursing his luck. He could have been great, he thought. If his parents weren't so poor. If his teachers hadn't given up on him. If he was rich like the Wayne family. He stood quietly, listening to the bustle of the city. He could hear the distant sounds of planes, the near sounds of cars, and the ever-present wail of poverty. He stepped forward, his leather shoes crunching on the frost. He heard footsteps behind him, but he didn't turn. These were of his followers. The uneducated boys that followed him were also extremely unfortunate, and when they weren't following Jack, they were sitting in the gutter, trying to stay warm.
Gotham might have once been a shining city of hope, but now, it was a place of no return. A place where good men went to die. The league of forgotten people trudged through the light snow, the white purity of it physically painful. They rounded a corner. Jack knelt on the ground, his knees absorbing the cold. His followers did the same, ducking. Jack remained immobile, watching with dutiful intent. His eyes were trained on a warehouse across the street. An enemy was there, he knew, and he knew what he had to do. A man had told him so. A man his followers looked up to even more than Jack himself. A man who promised cold, hard cash for the head of his rival. Jack pulled a hood over his head. It was red, standing out like blood in the wintry atmosphere. It matched his mask perfectly.
Raising two fingers in the air, he motioned towards the warehouse. The group that was following him split into two, running across the road, and behind the warehouse. These groups would break in the side doors. Jack would kick down the front door. All of the Red Hood's men were armed, so, in theory, the assassination of Maroni should have been easy. Almost too easy.
"I'm going in through the roof instead. Send two to cover front door. Over," Jack spoke into his radio, hearing static on the other end.
"Roger, Red Hood. Proceeding as instructed." A tinny voice leaked out of the radio's speaker.
He rounded the building towards the fire escape, and nimbly as a cat, he climbed, the red hood blowing in the wind, small snowflakes settling onto it. The rungs of the ladders were frozen and stuck to his gloves, but he forced them apart and continued on his way.
"There! You can take this too!" His father shoved a bag at his mother. The bag hit her with force, knocking the breath out of her for a moment. A moment too long. His father came back and swung his hand at her, making the tears leap from her eyes. "Why aren't you gone?" He yelled, the muscles in his back tense and ready. Ready to lunge, ready to run.
"I'm leaving!" She wailed, hugging the bag and stepping backwards towards the door. "Jack?" She looked around for a second, her eyes darting from one shadow in the room to another. A small child looked back towards her, his eye rimmed in black. An injury he had sustained in a moment of heroism. "Come with me. Don't be a hero, just come with me." She pleaded, her eyes begging. His father was watching with distaste, obviously restraining himself from further outbursts.
Jack looked from parent to parent, his strong, albeit violent, father on one side, and a weak, crying mother on the other side. What was a child to do?
"No!" He screamed and ran through the house, his feet tapping lightly on the brown, dusty floor. He sprinted out the front door, his father yelling angrily behind him.
"Get back here you little jerk!" The shouting was louder than everything, but in between words, Jack could hear the heart-wrenching sobbing of his mother.
The roof hatch was stuck shut with a thin layer of ice. Jack chipped at it with the barrel of his gun, ice shards flying in every direction. He rubbed the remaining pieces with a scratchy glove, using the friction to melt them. Finishing the task, he reached for his radio, pressing the button down with his thumb. "All exits covered? Standing by for response."
"All exits covered. Proceed to next stage, sir?"
"Affirmative. I repeat, affirmative." Jack looked down at the hatch, letting go of the radio. He wouldn't need it anymore. A flare arched over the building, leaving a blazing trail of red behind it, the noise cutting through the silence like a firework. This was the signal. Counting to three in his head, as he had told the others to do, he sprung the hatch, and swung himself inside.
His hands gripped the metal ceiling as he saw what was below him. A narrow bridge ran directly underneath him, over a vat of bubbling green liquid. About four men in uniform, a purple jumpsuit, stood around the edges of the vat, long weapons in hand. Who would have ever thought that a warehouse would be so guarded?
The Red Hood hung from the ceiling for a moment more, until his followers burst through the exits on the sides of the building. The doors opened violently and hit the walls with deafening clangs of metal on metal. His followers filed in, each wearing a red bandana over their mouths. Guns poised, they took out the guards quickly, the gunshots echoing through the enclosed space. Misfired bullets ricocheted off the steel interior, their courses changed, heading towards new targets. The Red Hood maintained his position.
Suddenly, a new band of purple-clad employees emerged from an office-like room, running forward with guns aimed. They caught the followers by surprise, some of them falling. Another, single figure emerged from the office. Maroni, coming to check on his acid. The Red Hood swung forward, using his momentum to propel himself onto the bridge. He crouched, ducking underneath the firing range. Sprinting low, like a ninja, he ran towards Maroni. This was what he needed to do. The only thing he needed to do.
Maroni, stronger than he looked, slapped Jack's hand, sending the gun into the vat of acid. It sizzled with intensity as it disintegrated. Jack, catching his guard, attempted to punch Maroni square in the jaw. Maroni swiftly missed the hit, and grabbed Jack by the neck, while he was trying to regain balance. Air was suddenly the most painful thing in the world as he struggled to breathe. Maroni's fingers dug into Jack's neck. A smile spread across his face. "You wanted to kill me," Maroni pressed Jack up against the railing of the bridge. The only thing separating him and the fall to the acid below. "But you aren't even the Red Hood." Maroni pulled off Jack's mask violently, tossing it into the acid. "And you aren't any son of mine."
Jack looked into his father's cold eyes as his mind started to fade. The grip around his throat was excruciating, his feet no longer touching the ground. His eyes seemed to beg forgiveness, but his actions apparently did not. In one aggravated movement, Maroni lifted Jack over the bar and dropped him, Jack simultaneously screaming and gasping for air, his red hood waving back and forth. He fell for a second then landed with a splash in the frothing green acid. His flesh sizzled and his face contorted into agony. The followers watched in pain, their weapons dropped to their sides. He had been unmasked in front of them. This would not do. Maroni must be punished.
Maroni stood on the bridge, leaning on the railing, admiring his fallen son. He was alone, surrounded by the Red Hood's followers. They stood their ground, legs spread for added balance. And one by one, they raised their weapons. "What're they paying you guys?" Maroni asked, a smug look on his face as he fingered his back pocket for his wallet. "Whatever it is, I can pay more."
"We don't want your money." One of the followers called through his red bandana. He loaded his weapon menacingly.
"Wait!" Maroni put his hands up in defeat. "You can't kill me or half of Gotham will be after your precious 'Red Hood'. Believe me kids. I got support in high places. And I ain't afraid of calling it in." A sinister smile spread across his face as the Red Hood followers turned, one by one, and left. Sure, they could have killed him in anger, in cold blood, but what he said was true. Maroni was one of the central mob bosses, and if anybody had support, it was him. In fact, if he were to be killed by somebody from the Red Hood, then you could be sure that more than half of Gotham would be after their leader.
When the remaining Red Hood members were gone, Maroni laughed silently to himself. "What a son of mine." He said, and left.
In the instant before he turned out the lights, a single difference could be seen. Where, moments before, the vat of acid had been bubbling, it was now still. A pale white hand stuck out of it, acid clinging to the fingers, smoke rising from them. A sizzling, like that of sausages on a grill could be heard. But Maroni didn't see this startling new revelation. All he did was turn off the lights, and lock the door.
His father wasn't home from work yet. His mother was crying in her room. But Jack was sitting at the kitchen table, arms crossed, waiting for him to come home. His mother was worried. Why, he had no idea. His father was not one to worry about. A first-class mob boss, his father could pull enough strings to make his own sweater. And he did it all with a gun in his hand.
Jack sat at the table, his 12 year old mind wandering. He had once run away, when his parents had fought. But he would never do that again. Not after the beating he had received as punishment. He knew that there were people he could run to, but his dad, Maroni, would have their heads if he so much as tried anything.
The door swung open and Maroni stepped in, swaying from a night of drinking, the smell of alcohol fresh on his breath. "What's your problem?" He slurred, looking at Jack.
Jack stared daggers at him. "Where were you?" His arms were still crossed.
Maroni stumbled towards him on unsure legs. "Why are you so serious?" He looked down, concerned in a completely morbid way. Jack stared back, unmoved. His father smiled. "Let's put a smile on that face." He pulled a small knife from his pocket, and before Jack could get up from his chair, Maroni had grabbed him by the face. "Why don't we," Maroni put the knife in Jack's mouth. "See how much better you look with a smile."
The edges of the vat were slippery, but Jack could manage. He pulled himself up over the edge, and fell to the floor, a puddle of acid still clinging to him. It had eaten away at him, and his nerves were on fire. He lay, immobile, for a few hours, the last vapours floating away.
The lights came on then, with the intensity of the sun. Jack groaned. Awkwardly, he stood up, testing his legs. He could see his reflection in the side of the vat. His jaw dropped. His skin was bleached white from the acid, giving him the appearance of an albino, if it weren't for his hair and his eyes. His hair was bright green, the colour of the acid, where before it had been blonde. His eyes were a deep purple, and they saw colour differently, in brighter, more happy shades. And his mouth! The scars from his childhood showed up much more than before. Almost like a clown, he mused. They stretched in a long arch from cheek to cheek, a ribbon of red across his face. He looked down at his hands. They too, were white, but scarred as though they had almost lost all layers of skin.
He heard footsteps from above. "Hey!" somebody called from the suspended bridge. "What're you doing down there?" Some quick footfalls came after that, and then a night guard was staring Jack in the face, concern riddled throughout his features. "Lord in heaven! What happened to you?"
"What happened to me?" Jack asked incredulously. "Why, I'm just a happier person, is all." He smiled, stretching the scars on his face. "Do you want me to tell you, how I go these scars?"
The man shook his head. "You've got to be joking." He rubbed his eyes.
"I like that. The Joker. It suits me. Don't ya think?" The Joker stepped forwards, and the guard ran away, looking over his shoulder as he ran. "Why so serious?" He yelled, remembering the words of his father, the man who had forced this appearance upon him. "It is time to get my revenge," he said, much more softly. An image of his father flashed through his mind. "And put a smile on his face."