Edward Nashton was finally free.

He'd been released from Arkham on good behavior. After he'd taken an aptitude test and conducted conversations with endless psychiatrists, they'd reluctantly granted him permission to leave, under the conditions that he live no more than ten minutes from the asylum and meet with a doctor three times a week. He was pumped full of medications and aside from his bloodshot eyes, looked and acted perfectly normal.

He paced around the wooden floor in his new apartment, listening to his footsteps echo around the empty room. He had no furniture aside from a bed and an old armchair. But he didn't mind it that way—the less objects he owned, the better.

Edward knelt in front of the picture window and pulled out a pair of binoculars. From here he could see the entire city—and Arkham Asylum. He spat on the ground, curling his lips in disgust.

"What is a six-letter synonym for hell?" he muttered to himself, and laughed darkly.

Jack had been right—Edward wasn't insane in the least.

His act for the past four years had been just that—an act. Edward couldn't stand his family—his self-righteous, superficial family, especially his little sister Emily who would amount to nothing—and the only way out other than killing them had been the insane route. He'd spent four years in prison, giving him plenty of time to think up his true plan—the destruction of Gotham. His time at Arkham had given him enough understanding of criminals to know what and what not to do. He would take control of the city—people being the mindless sheep they were, it shouldn't be that difficult.

Now, looking out at the city, he felt utterly confident. It was only a matter of time before everything was his.

The orange flicker of a flame caught his attention and he immediately lifted the binoculars to his eyes, watching a building across the street go up in flames. That was certainly a shame, he thought dryly. It had to have been deliberately set. Then again, it looked like a storm was coming. Perhaps a bolt of lightning had struck it.

Edward watched the tragedy unfold: the firefighters arrived first, rushing bravely into the still-smoldering building, but there was nothing they could do. The police got there next, setting up barriers to prevent any curious people from sneaking into the wreckage. The paramedics arrived last, but there was no use for their stretchers and ambulances, not when the only remains were piles of ashes.

With an emotionless expression on his face, Edward put his binoculars down and turned away. It was just another destruction of a building in Gotham. What effect could it possibly have on the future in any way?

Yes, Edward was truly sane. Everything he had said and done for the past four years had been an act.

Or was that just the medication talking?

Falcone had chosen to meet Jack at a comedy club.

It was rather ironic, which was exactly the reason he had selected it. However, the current comedian's jokes were failing miserably and most of the guests were simply getting up and leaving.

Everything was in place. Dimitrov was waiting by the apartment to make sure Hammet did his job, and Gambol was sitting at the table across from Falcone. Napier was supposed to meet them any time now.

"You think Hammet will do it?" Gambol muttered.

"It's either that or die." Falcone snorted. "All he has to do is set a fire. It's not that hard."

"There he is," Gambol said. Napier walked in slowly, looking guarded as usual. Falcone waved him over, but he didn't sit down.

"This is one of my close associates, Joseph Gambol," Falcone began. Gambol held out a hand, but Napier didn't take it. "He's going to explain to you what you'll have to do."

"And what if I refuse?" Napier asked.

"You won't," said Gambol firmly. Falcone couldn't suppress a grin as he witnessed the internal power struggle between the two men.

"Well," Falcone said, breaking the tense silence, "I'll just—" Right on cue, his phone rang. "Excuse me," he said, getting up and leaving the main room. "I'll take this."

Napier watched him with a look of pure disgust as he left, but he was the least of Carmine's worries at the moment. "Hammet?" he asked at once.

"Yes," Oliver answered, sounding out of breath.

"Napier is in the next room," Falcone said in a low voice. "Did you do it?"

There was an infinitesimal pause, and Hammet replied, "Yes. I killed her."

When Falcone came back into the room, Napier and Gambol were discussing the plan. "How much do I get?" Napier asked.

"As much as you want," Gambol said. "You need the money, don't you?"

Napier hesitated and frowned. "What's the catch?"

"No catch," replied Gambol. "All you have to do is—"

Clearing his throat, Falcone came back into the room, wearing a somber expression. Pulling Gambol aside, he whispered, "It's done."

Gambol nodded and Falcone slunk away, leaving him to it.

"I'm afraid I have some bad news for you," Gambol began once he'd sat back down, looking Jack in the eye, "Carmine just got a call from Oliver Hammet. He was on his way to visit your wife when he smelled smoke and realized that your apartment building had been set on fire. The police have been investigating, but it looks like your wife didn't make it out alive—there are no survivors."

"Dead?" Jack repeated slowly, drawing out the word. "She's…dead?"

His reaction, Gambol thought, was quite unusual. Instead of tearing up or going into denial, he sounded shocked, as if the word suddenly held an entirely new connotation. "Yes," he said. "Listen, kid, we still want you to go ahead with the plan tonight—"

His words fell on deaf ears as Napier kicked back his chair and stalked out of the room. Gambol stood up and ran after him, but he had disappeared.

That was the last time the mob had any contact with Jack Napier. Later, he would be officially declared dead and all traces that he ever existed would vanish.

By the time Jack reached the apartment, there was a huge crowd gathered around the smouldering pile of ashes that had once been his home. A bolt of lightning split the sky, with the ensuing thunder reverberating around the city.

"J—Jack?" a voice said hesitantly. Jack didn't turn, but Oliver stepped in front of him.

"Listen…I'm sorry about Jeannie," he said quietly. "I know you loved her—"

"Get out," Jack whispered dangerously, still not looking at him.

"I was just trying to—"

Now Jack turned and met his gaze, and the look that was on his face was one Oliver had never seen before in his life, so wild and inhuman that it was something straight from his darkest nightmares.

"GET OUT!" he screamed. His voice was not that of Jack Napier anymore, but of something more devil than man. Oliver turned and fled, narrowly missing the knife that soared just over his head and embedded itself into the building ahead of him.

The pain was indescribable. As soon as Oliver was out of sight, Jack fell to the ground, gasping for breath. "You're a freak!" Her last words rang in his ears. "Fuck," he hissed, feeling his eyes start to burn. His vision blurred and the hot, salty taste of tears seeped into his mouth. The sensation was entirely foreign—he hadn't cried since he was five years old.

Jack felt bile rise up in his throat and he vomited onto the concrete. The pain was too much—he was nothing—he was no one—

She's dead.

My fault.

No.

Her fault.

I'm a freak.

Monster.

She's the freak for staying with me.

Did she think it was funny?

I could have saved her.

I can't even save myself.

It hurts. Oh fuck, it hurts, I'll do anything, just please bring her back, I loved her, I fucking loved her.

"I loved you," Jack choked. "Oh God—Jeannie—" He shuddered violently, wanting to rip his heart out of his chest. His agonized scream pierced his ears. Just as he was beginning to think his life might turn out all right after all, it had been ripped away from him in the worst way possible.

As Jack stared blindly at the ground, the pain building to an unbearable intensity, something inside of his brain snapped. He couldn't take it anymore—he would surely die—unless—

A joke. That was all everything was.

One big joke.

And his half-choked screams gradually became less and less recognizable until his face was contorted and the screams began to sound something like laughter.

The world was a joke. Everything was a joke.

It was hilarious.

So what I'm trying to get at here is that Jack is in so much pain that his body literally cannot take it anymore. It converts that agony to a different outlet, which in his case is laughter.

As for the Edward situation, you can decide for yourself whether he's been sane all the while or he just has really effective medication. :)

Lastly, I can't believe this is done! I want to thank everyone who has taken the time to read this. The sequel, which is entitled "Shatter", will be up very soon!