Night Gaze The Redemption of Joker

During Crisis, the Monitor picked up a man from a pile of bodies. It was strange to see a man with green hair and white skin, his features frozen in death yet somehow more vivid than the corpses surrounding him. Even the man's plastered smile gave the Monitor chills, an unsettling reminder of joy that had curdled into something grotesque.

The Monitor could feel that something was different about this man. He wondered what it could be. What made this ruined creature so mysterious, so worthy of his attention amid countless other bodies?

So he took a look inside, peering into the man's soul as if parting a veil. He found it there, buried deep, and he knew exactly what it was.

"Hmm, I see," he murmured, studying the truth he'd uncovered. "You're the one I've been looking for. If I give you the tools you need, and the push you need, I can finally find the future I desire."

He knew that this version of the man was useless to him now, a husk already spent. So he tossed the body aside, and it slumped across the mounds of the dead like discarded refuse. A flicker of sadness passed through the Monitor, for even in death, the man could only smile, and even in death, the Monitor understood that the man had never found peace.

The Monitor phased back to the past, arriving in the 1950s. He was now in Gotham, a place swarming with crime and desperation, its streets thick with the promise of violence. The person he was looking for was Jack Napier, a scared little boy who desired nothing more than help. Society had abandoned Jack, forcing him to shoulder the worries of a life far too heavy for his small shoulders. He wished for something simple: a life where he could be happy, a place he could call home, a sanctuary from the chaos that surrounded him.

Now that the Monitor stood here in the past, he intended to give Jack that chance for a new life, a new dream, and a new hope. Whether that hope would flourish or wither, only time would tell.

Jack's walls were thin as paper, offering little protection from the sounds that haunted his childhood. The nights his father spent away were peaceful, rare pockets of calm in an otherwise turbulent existence. His mother's muffled singing soothed him at times, a gentle melody that made the house feel almost normal, but her screams filled his nightmares more often than her songs filled his heart with comfort.

Rage and anger can be poisonous and destructive, twin venoms that seep into the soul. They can unearth something buried deep in the psyche, causing a monster to emerge where a man once stood.

Frank was that monster. He was a man filled with hatred and frustration, emotions he could never seem to master or release in healthy ways. He physically projected this turmoil onto his family, turning what should have been a sanctuary into a battlefield. Most days in the Napier household descended into chaos, punctuated by shouting and the constant threat of violence.

At night, Jack could hear his father fighting with his mother, though their arguments were usually one-sided, more assault than exchange. He could hear Frank's hand hit the wall, a booming sound that echoed through the thin walls and straight into Jack's chest. He knew his father had his mother pinned somewhere in that room, trapped and helpless. Her weeping and his yelling kept Jack up most nights, a cruel lullaby that replaced any hope of peaceful sleep. Jack had heard this pattern repeat itself countless times, and each time he wished, with the fierce desperation only a child can muster, that it would simply stop.

One night, Jack got tired of it, the accumulated weight of every previous night crystallizing into something like courage. He wasn't going to let his father hurt her anymore, not this time. Jack ran into his parents' bedroom, his small body trembling with a mixture of fear and fury, and he yelled with all the force his lungs could produce.

"Get away from her!"

His eyes bulged and his nostrils flared, his young face contorted with an intensity that seemed too large for his years. Jack stood in front of her, positioning his small frame as a shield. His fists were raised, though they shook uncontrollably, betraying the terror beneath his bravado.

"You little bastard," his father snarled, the words slurred by drink and rage.

"Move out of my way!" Frank barked.

"No!" Jack's voice cracked slightly despite his effort to sound strong.

"I said move!" His father shoved him.

He stumbled a bit and regained his stance, refusing to yield the ground he'd claimed.

"I'm not moving!"

"You dare raise your fist to your father! The father, that put food in your mouth! The father, that put clothes on your back!" Frank roared.

Jack stepped forward and raised his fist higher, though fear coiled tight in his stomach. His glare peered over the top of his knuckles, steady despite the trembling in his hands. Jack was no longer afraid, or perhaps he simply refused to let fear rule him any longer. He lowered the tone in his voice, finding an unexpected calm within the storm.

"I will not let you hurt her!" he yelled, the declaration final and absolute.

"Oh, I see. You think you are a big man now," Frank sneered. "Come, little boy, let me show you how a real man fights!"

Mirah grabbed Frank's arm, desperation lending her strength she didn't know she possessed. It was already drawn back, his fist clenched tight with violent intention.

"Please, he doesn't know what he's saying, he is just a little boy," she begged, her voice cracking with fear for her son.

"Shut up!" Frank flung her off his arm, and she fell back to the floor, the impact knocking the breath from her lungs.

Jack placed himself between his mother and father, small but immovable. He once again stood his ground, refusing to retreat despite every instinct screaming at him to run. Jack peered into his father's bloodshot eyes and found nothing human looking back, only a void where compassion should have lived. His father wailed and kicked him, the blow catching Jack off guard. Jack stumbled back, and it felt like his soul was separating from his body, some protective instinct pulling his consciousness away from the pain. Jack staggered and blindly swung, more reflex than strategy. His fist clipped his father's chin, the contact surprising them both. Frank was jarred a little and shook it off, more annoyed than hurt. His father spat out blood, the crimson stark against his lips. Jack's eyes widened. He just realized what he'd done, the gravity of the moment crashing over him like cold water. There was no going back now.

"Good, I see you're not completely weak," Frank said, wiping the blood from his lips. "You might have gotten in a lucky hit, but you're going to regret that."

Jack began to swing aimlessly, desperation replacing any semblance of technique. He hoped he could land another punch, but his father was too fast, too experienced in this particular cruelty. He didn't have a chance, not really, and some part of him had known that from the beginning.

"You have a lot of gall, boy. I'll give you that," Frank taunted, "but you should know when to be afraid. I am a man. You are a child. When I look at you, I see a flea, something I can flick out of my way."

Jack's feet gave way, his legs finally betraying him after holding strong for so long. He stumbled to the floor, and Frank hovered over him like a predator over wounded prey. Jack crawled, instinct driving him to escape even as his father bore down. Frank's fist connected, and Jack realized his father was right. He felt helpless and hopeless, emotions that would haunt him long after the bruises faded. His right eye was now swollen shut, throbbing with each heartbeat. His legs were bruised, marked with the evidence of his father's fury.

Jack's mother got in front of him and cradled her body around his, using herself as a final barrier against the violence. Some of Frank's blows cracked her ribs, the pain sharp and immediate, but she endured it for her son.

"Get out of the room, now," she urged him, her voice tight despite her injuries.

Mirah got up and grabbed Frank's hands, and they wrestled for a moment, her strength waning even as her resolve held firm. Her sides started to ache with each movement. Frank overpowered her and threw her on the bed, his superior strength making the struggle brief and one-sided.

"Run!" she yelled, the word tearing from her throat with everything she had left.

Jack fled the room, his heart pounding with a mixture of relief and guilt at leaving her behind. His father took off his belt and wrapped it around his fist, the leather creaking ominously. The door slammed shut, sealing away the sounds that Jack knew would follow.

"He's only a child," she pleaded, her voice muffled through the door.

"Shut up! You dare stand up to me!" Frank bellowed.

She raised her arm in a futile attempt at defense. Mirah was powerless against his assault, her body already weakened from the earlier blows.

"Please, Frank, stop!" she screamed, the sound piercing through the walls and into Jack's very bones.

Jack ran and jumped under his covers, pulling them over his head as if the thin fabric could somehow shield him from the horror unfolding just rooms away. He repeatedly heard fist against flesh, each impact a physical blow to his own heart. Her weeping tore him up inside, more painful than any beating his father could have given him directly. He hated himself for not being able to help her, and he hated that he was so weak, so small, so utterly powerless to protect the one person who had always tried to protect him.