Many years ago.
At Thomas Wayne and Martha Wayne's funeral.
Jacob sat in the front row, grief written across his face. "I swear, if I ever get the chance, I'm going to beat the hell out of him."
"Not now, Jacob," Kate's mother, Gabrielle, warned him.
"Walking down a back alley in this goddamn city, in that kind of neighborhood? What the hell was he thinking?" Jacob still refused to stop. "My father was right. They should have thrown Wayne into Arkham with the lunatics ages ago. He never understood how dangerous it was out there—Thomas never thought about anyone but himself."
"Jacob. Think of the girls," Gabrielle warned again. "Imagine what would happen if that idea took root in their minds."
"Martha was my little sister, Gabby. My little sister is dead." Jacob sat there in a daze, tears streaming down his face.
Coming out of the memory, Jacob suddenly sat up in his hospital bed and lunged for Thomas's throat with both hands.
"What are you doing?" Startled, Thomas grabbed Jacob's hands and began struggling with him.
As a doctor, Thomas should have been a weaker fighter than Jacob, a military man. But Kate had already given Jacob a concussion. Waves of dizziness and nausea washed over him, leaving his hands weak, and the two were evenly matched.
"Thomas!" Jacob roared. Ignoring the IV still in his arm, he punched Thomas in the face. He had always blamed Thomas for his sister's death. He had no idea what was going on now, but he could hit him first and worry about that later.
"Jacob!" Thomas lost his temper too, driving an uppercut into Jacob's chin. He knew exactly what this man had done, yet Jacob had hit him before he could even make the first move.
The two