Author's note: I do not own the Batman franchise, or the Batman or Joker characters. I only own the labtop I wrote this on, and I'm fine with that. This is my first take at writing a Batman inspired peice of fanwork. I'm so excited! Just saw the movie, was blown away by the joker, and that has lead to this. I have no idea when this scenario happens. Maybee a scene that could have occured near the end? Probably would fit in better afterwards. Either way I hope you enjoy it! Reviews are appreciated, I want to know what you think. Here we go!

Do you want to know how I got these scars, Batman?

I'll tell you, I'll tell you every gory and glossed little detail that floats around in my mind every time I look in the mirror. I'll tell you, if you'll ask me. I want you to ask me, I want... No one does, no one ever actually asks. I've told so many people who didn't ask, I wonder if it will be different when someone does..? Would I answer if it wasn't you asking? Would it be the same? I hope not, no, I don't think it could be. Of course I'm not sure... this is me we're talking about. I could tell you how someone else would react but with me, with me... there's no way to know. I'm a bit of a wild card.

It's never the same story, how this happened. Did you know? You might know, if anyone would it would be you. You've done your homework. You see, it isn't about me, when I tell it. If it was It would be consistent and monotonous... and dull, and that's not fair to them.

It's all for them Batman; it always is.

Sometimes, people deserve more, sometimes. They deserve a little explanation, or transition phases, a moment to really feel how powerless they are. People need time to be scared. I like to give them that. It adds to their character, if they live. Some do but you don't hear about them. They try to forget it. No one ever learns...

I've told it so many different ways, heh! I could write a book on it if I felt like compiling stories, dedicate each one to the person I created it for. Fortunately I have better uses for my time. But still they're all so colorful and varied, I do try to personalize them, helps to draw in my immediate audience.

Once; this was a good one, more because of circumstance than anything else. Little boy, cute kid, had a lot going for him. The point, the point... there's always a point, you can't use children without one. That would be excessive and I, I'm a conservative man. I get by doing the best I can with the little I have.

Listen, the point was his parent. He and I were having some disagreements and I needed to clear the water a bit, you know, remind him where we were and why. Anyway; So here's the boy, small and afraid, and I think to myself... "Life's cruel, isn't it? I should give him a really good one. You have to sweeten things up when you tell them to children." And so I knelt down to his level, and I patted his cheek, to calm him, he needed it. And I said to him,

"Do you want to know how I got these scars?"

And he looked at me, and he didn't even look at the scars, stiff as a plank. So I shook him a little, got the stiffness out. And I asked him again; I usually only ask once,

"Do you want to know how I got these scars?"

So then he looks at them, as if noticing them for the first time; I'm not fooled, he'd been staring at them before. Cute kid. And looking small and pathetic and so very, very frightened he shakes his head no. So I put my hand under his chin to hold him still, and I look him in the eyes; by the way, adults should do that more often. You see people, people... they think that until a kid becomes a man, he doesn't understand things. So they don't have to meet them, eye to eye, and it's crazy! Kids, kids are so very... adaptable. They're our hope for the future you know, parents especially, yes all you good parents out there, listen, Listen! Heheheheehehe! Well, you listen at least Batman, and repeat this when you leave. Look your children in the eyes when you talk to them, it's the least you can do.

I hold his chin, and I tell him. "Now now now... no reason not to be curious!" And I pull him closer, just like--hold still now--just like this. And I tell him, "Well, when I was your age I lived in a very bad neighborhood, like this one! And I didn't listen to my parents, who loved me, very much, and warned me not to sneak out at night." He was shaking again so I patted his head, like this. He was just a child after all, I wasn't hoping for a mans courage. Actually, I've almost never seen a man's courage when I do this. I wonder where it all goes? Maybe it drips back into the sewers of bravado and hypocrisy that it spawned out of before it wrapped around and squeezed the honesty and tenacity out of it's victims. Ah, That's just a theory.

So, back to the boy. I pat his head, like this, and continue, "But I knew better than my parents, and I went out alot. And sometimes, sometimes I did bad things. Kicked little stray dogs, painted walls, just like you've wanted to do sometimes, right?" And he shakes his head no, tries to; I'm still holding him and I say, very confidentially, "No need to be shy, everyone goes through that phase. So, one night I get back from wandering the streets and find that someone's broken into my house. I can't find mommy and daddy cause the intruder cut them up and dumped their bodies in the closet. But I look for them, and I look for them, and I find the intruder instead. He's standing in my room."

I lean in a little, just like this, and I lower my voice, like this, just a whisper. This is personal now between me and this boy, this was for his ears alone. I say, "And the intruder looks at me, and he's everything my parents warned me about, except that he's inside the house, and he comes toward me with a knife." And I pull out my switchblade; "Just like this one. And he's crazy! And he keeps saying to me, 'get out of my house! You don't live here anymore! I don't want you here!' So.., I back up to the wall--and he keeps on coming! And I'm very, very scared... just like you."

"And he's still talking crazy-talk, 'get out of my house! you look scared! I don't want any more scared people in my house!' He's right in front of me now, and he puts that knife in my mouth..."

"He asks me, as he presses the cold, bloody steel into my lip, 'why can't you smile at me? Smile At Me!"

...And I shook the kid, and he made this little gasping noise, and I could hear his father begging and I could smell that the boy'd lost control of himself. I put the knife in the boys mouth, tilt his head to get a clean angle. Then I said, "And then he cut me, cut me on both sides. Now... I'm not afraid anymore, now... I'm smiling. See how easy it was? All it took was a little... knack. Smile at me kid; Smile!"

Yes I cut him. It bled badly, it always does but the cut was clean, very smooth... no, jagged edges. Also, I mentioned that I used my switchblade. I don't do that for adults, no, no-no-no it's too clean, too quick, too good for grown people like us. If I used that with you, I'd be cheating you of the experience. And I've said multiple times I'll give people exactly what they're owed, I'll be fair. You'll see. What doesn't kill you makes you stronger after all.

He lived. So did his father... if you wanted to know.

There was another good one--this took place several years later. She... she was so very expressive. I enjoyed that, I admit it. But she deserved it, she actually asked for it! This was two years before us, batman, and I was working my way up the highway on my way here, and I stopped at a ghetto neighborhood in a big city to sleep. I parked my truck, and settled down to catch some rest... and at precisely 2 am I was woken by someone trying to jack the back open. So I lye still... and they just, they just can't get it. Now I hear cursing and I know it's a girl. She's cold, it's winter, and she just wants to stay the night inside four walls. Desperation gives her strength and she jimmies it open.

Then she sees me. I can't see her, but I can see the wheels in her head turning as she crouches there, like a thief, on my bumper. She's thinking, "He might have money, he has warmer clothes than mine, I want them. I haven't eaten recently." I think, "Bad luck little girl... you can still feel this out and run. I understand... Oh I do, I understand your needs. Go kill someone else." But she can't hear me, the way I hear her. She comes into the truck and she, she doesn't even have a weapon! She tries to smother me with my own coat!

I can't allow that. Not for a moment. So I force her into a corner with my superior strength, and I pin her against the wall she wanted so badly. And she fights me like a tiger, all tooth and nails and kicks! And she's beautiful as she struggles, beautiful in her desperation, so beyond fear, callus and broken upon the wheel of modern city living. It's a curse I tell you. She took my breath away. I knew, you see I knew right then, that she needed a good one too. She needed to be entertained before she passed on to a 'better place,' I would give her that.

I leaned in, close enough to share her air. She went very still and her face... was so very, very tired. I cup her chin and say softly. "Did you come in to see the scars? Do you want to know how I got them?"

She... she surprises me. She nods. Probably can tell that it's a safe answer. It wouldn't have made a difference, really, but I've said I like her already. So I tell her, "Well, I had a sister, older than me, who believed in the good of mankind. She was always reaching out to people... helping people... trying to make life better for others, people like you. But we didn't have much ourselves, and it grew very, very hard on her. One night, she doesn't come home. You see she'd met someone and fallen in love. He had nothing to offer her, but, he made her happy! I was so very, very glad for them. I thought her life would get better."

I brush some dirty hair out of her face, it's obstructing her eyes and I need to watch them. I'm playing to her, I told you that. I need to see what she thinks of it. I go on, "But life didn't get better, it got worse. He... he wasn't exactly what you'd call 'faithful,' and he had other girls on the side, some of them were high class, and it embarrassed my sister. She thought it was her fault, you see. So she stops reaching out, she becomes a very sad person. He ruined my sister! I wanted to help her, that's all; I just wanted to see her smile again. I go over to her place and tell her she needs to leave him. She gets really angry, says she never wants me to come back there. I go home."

She's watching me, so I know I'm telling the right story. Sometimes I'm so close to the mark with what they need to hear that it's unnerving, but back to her, yes... back to her Batman. I turn her head, so I can lean in, and I whisper in her ear, "He leaves her. Finds someone younger. And she... she thinks I talked to him, she blames me! She's a wreck of herself, she needs help... but she doesn't seek it. She comes to me first." I put space between us then because she's afraid now, really afraid, but she's holding still. "I let her in, I'm glad to see her. She moves in, like this, to hug me..." And here I pull her against me, let her leach some warmth as I force the blade between her lips, I can feel her trembling. "And she sticks a knife in my mouth! My own sister! She says to me, 'happy to see me?! I bet you're happy to see me! You were jealous that I found someone! You turned him against me! I'm glad you're happy; I think you should stay happy! You can be happy for both of us!' And she cut me, just like that. Now, I smile because she can't anymore. Now, I'm happy for her again!"

She didn't struggle until I cut her, and she was too weak afterwards to last. Life had been cruel to her. I left her on the curb wrapped in a blanket and spent the night somewhere else.

So you see, you see now what I meant. The thing about scars, not just these scars, any scars, is that they're whatever you want them to be. Anything can leave a scar, skin is frail. And people, people are shaped by their experiences. That's what makes them who they are, that's what makes them tick. You're a bat because someone... hurt you. Someone made you into this, just like someone made me. We weren't born like this, no, no we were worked on, we were shaped and we... we, we didn't break when it happened. We Became. Because scars like mine... because they come from a pivot point, a 'big' experience, they helped to make me what I am. And so when I tell a person, when I give them that story; I become, for just a moment, the end result of their personal interpretation.

I'm different for everyone, and I'm exactly the same. I'm a personal nightmare, I fit people, I embrace everything that's wrong with them and hold it up for them to gawk at. In a way, every time I've told the story I've told the truth.

And in a way I've always lied. Maybe I don't remember anymore, how I got these... People, even me, we forget the craziest things! Maybe I slept through it, maybe I never knew!

But Batman, when you ask me, and you will, I know. I know you will. I'll have a special version just for you. That's only fair. I'll tell you everything; every little detail, and you can understand me for a few moments. I'll give you that part of myself in exchange for a glimpse of who you really are.

Batman... do you want to know? How I got these scars?

Do you? Do you?

Ask me Batman… ASK ME BATMAN… ASK ME!!