AN: I actually wrote this when I was 14, but I found it amongst my files. I thought you guys might like to read it. I edited it a bit, but it's pretty much the way it was about 5 years ago. Enjoy! And please review!

xxx Mistro

~.~.~.~.~

It is past nightfall. The streets are black as though covered in dark silk. The office buildings look abandoned. No one is on the streets, save a few late night workers, the gangs, and the homeless.

Gotham City is becoming a septic tank and the humans are the waste.

Everyone is full of hidden dread. No ordinary civilians walk through downtown Gotham past 11 anymore, fearing for their own safety. Diseases, thieves, murder; Gotham has them all and more. The more the people know about the falling of their city makes them weaker by the second. Gotham is becoming a wasteland, a paranoid society that when the people are trapped in their own trepidation, they are too weak to fight for themselves.

A house is being robbed on Prosper Street. How ironic. The neighbors don't do anything to help. They know what's going on, but they ignore the shouts and the clatters coming from next door, because it's not them who are getting robbed. Why bother?

There's a kidnapping being planned underneath Good Street. How ironic. She's only a little girl. There's no reason behind the plan. It is merely for entertainment. A man smoking outside of a bar overhears the kidnappers' intentions. He ignores it, not even bothering to report it to the police. It's not his daughter's life in danger. Why bother?

There was a young female doctor taken from Arkham Asylum today. Video cameras got a few shots of the offender. His hair was down to his shoulders. His face was pale, his eyes sunken in. The outfit he wore seemed heavy despite it being the middle of spring. The photos were blurry. He was moving quickly.

Cops recognized him to be the Gotham's 'Clown Prince of Crime', a man who called himself, 'The Joker'. This was a man who had threatened Gotham before and was an inch away from winning every time. The Batman and Gotham Police Force alike had both been able to stop him, yet he always managed to escape and carry on his with reign. Once more, he had an idea. This time it was someone innocent. Knowing the dangerous nature of this man, the police ignored the minimal urgent calls and focused on finding The Joker.

~.~.~.~.~

One the far side of Gotham rested an abandoned cinema. Dust gathered on the candy counter in the lobby. The stairway's metal was beginning to rust. The white paint was beginning to chip off the walls. Cobwebs danced across the chandeliers and in the corners as if a frozen ballet with no audience.

A young woman sits inside the theater. Her name is Sarah Tripp and she is a psychologist at the Arkham Asylum for the Criminally Insane. She knew the dangers of her job once hired- working with the unstable- but she loved it anyways. Now she wasn't so certain.

She was out of breath and her breathing became scattered. Her long hair hangs down in front of her smooth face. Her thin wrists are tied behind her with rope, matching the knots on her ankles. The rest of her body is tied to a faded red chair. She doesn't know why she's here.

Breaking the silence, a demonic voice echoed across the theater. "Front row seat!" The scratchy tune added a chuckle at the end. "How about you turn that frown upside down and smile?"

"Joker?" She coughed as the dust filled her lungs. As her head rose, blood dripped down her forehead like war paint. Except, this continued to seem like a war she was losing. "Are we done playing your games yet?"

"Games?" The perky voice called over the speakers. In her mind it was as horrifying of a sound as that of a ventriloquist's dummy. "We're playing games? I thought we were settling down for a film. If its games you'd like to play, I'm all for it." There was a pause, then a wondering mumble over the speakers. "Kinda wanted to watch the movie and all, but… Well!" He squeaked, clasping his hands together. "We'll just multi-task here."

A click was heard over the speakers. They had been turned off. The credits of a movie began to start up. Sarah stared at the screen, curious and afraid to figure out which film was going to begin. She nearly laughed when she noticed the screen read; 'IT'.

"This is ridiculous!" She cried out, jerking in her chair. "First I'm tied up with work, and now I'm dragged over here?" A few moments later Sarah could hear the sound of shoes approaching her. She held her head up high, hiding her fear the best as her innocent eyes could manage.

"You thought you were tied down with work?" The Joker stood in front of her, his tall body looming. Menacing. "Now I guess you know the real meaning of 'tied up'." Sarah felt a lump grow in her throat. The white makeup smeared over his broken face like glue, holding the broken pieces together. The dark circles that spread around his eyes were uneven. They stirred between emotions. Almost like his heart. Sarah thought to herself.

He was biting the inside of his cheek, a disgusting habit, while twisting a knife between his fingers. The Glasgow smile painted across his face was wide, gleefully displaying his yellow grin. Sarah stared back at him, a frown on her face.

"Did I ever tell you… how I got these scars?" He raised his painted white eyebrows with a mocking look on his face. Of course not. She thought to herself. You just took me hostage a few hours ago. "No?" His feet took him atop the stage. "Then I'll just tell you now."

As the horror movie continued to play behind him, he paced the stage. "Where to begin, where to begin?" Suddenly, he stopped with a quick snap of his gloved fingers. "I had a job once, you know. Not like the one I have now. Not the one that gets you jumpin' in your pants. No. Oh, no. This one was boring." He rolled his eyes. "I had a job as a comedian-"

"The Joker had a job as a comedian?" Sarah's scoff echoed across the empty hall. "How original."

"Excuse me," He grunted. "If you didn't read the rules, no questions or snippy comments until after the end, alright?" Sarah sunk back in her chair. She should have known the dangerous nature of this man, but her strict tongue sometimes got ahead of her. "I liked my job, for a while. It felt good, to make people laugh like I did. Well, one night, they weren't laughing." He shut his eyes, his fists tightening. "I wasn't in the best mood that day, so I wasn't feeling as sure about myself. Now you see, my boss… he wasn't very… mentally stable." Sarah felt the hairs on her neck rise. "For lack of better words, he was a paranoid schizophrenic… Who, just in case of trouble, always carried a knife."

~.~.~.~.~.~

"You're not funny clown!" "How about you go and find a different place to work at?" "Why did I pay money to come and see this goon?" "He looks funnier than his jokes!"

The young man ignores the shouts and complaints thrown at him. He's young. 19 years of age. His face was dark, looking towards the ground. He walks quickly, dodging insults and tomatoes. The young man is a comedian and he didn't put on a very good show that night. In fact, most people didn't even consider it a show.

Meanwhile, his boss is having a mental breakdown.

Finally, after what seemed like years, he made it to his trailer. Pulling open the squeaky door, he begins to climb inside, unhappy with his life. "You!" He hears a familiar voice call out to him. "Hey, kid, come over here!" Groggily, he obeys. It's the voice of his boss.

He spins around, not expecting to see what he does. His boss's hair is thrown all over with his eyes blood shot. He grips a tight knife in his hand. The young comedian grabs the side of his trailer door, afraid. "I heard you didn't make anyone laugh tonight! Is that true?" The boy remains speechless. "Answer me, boy!"

"Y-yes," he chokes. "I guess you could say that."

"Get your sorry ass down here!" The boy hesitantly makes his way in front of him. "You know how much money I lose when my workers do poorly?" The boy shakes his head. His eyes never look away from the knife. "I lose a lot of money! A lot!"

Wincing, the boy begins to back up. His boss rarely acts like this. The boy doesn't know that he's sick. Crazy. Before the boy can safely make it back to the trailer, the boss reaches out and backhands him.

Screaming in pain, the boy grabs his face while falling to the ground. A sharp, stabbing pain ripples through his body. He looks down at his hand, unsurprised to see blood on it. "Where'd that come from?" The boss asks confused. "I just smacked you, you lazy kid!" He looks down in his hand. He had forgotten that he was holding the knife. "Oh." He bluntly stated.

The boy continues to scream while reaching up to touch his cheek, only to find that it has gone numb. He can feel his skin breaking open further and further as he continues to cry out. But he doesn't care. The pain is too much.

Furiously, he hops to his feet. This is the last straw. His feet lash out against his boss while his fists beat down against his head. Howling with rage, the boss strikes out to defend himself only to cut his other cheek. "Oh, would you look at that!" The boss cries against the boy's punches. "Now you match! Now the whole world can see you smile! Everyone will find that funny, huh?"

~.~.~.~.~.~

"Oh. I see." Sarah had not been expecting such a tale. Other Arkham doctors had informed her of different versions of the Joker's scar story. And although they could all be taken as a lie, she was certain he did not give those scars to himself. And the trouble was knowing which story to believe.

The Joker snapped his head over at her, a sinister beam on his face. His voice had gone harsh from yelling at the end of his story and she watched in silence as his sunken chest heaved. Instantaneously, a clown on the movie screen smiled along with him. Two against one. Sarah thought despondently in her head.

"You see? Good." He began to lightly trace his scars with the knife. "He was right, you know. I got a lot more laughs after that night." It became clear that the story had not finished. How far would he go on? Would he tell her his whole past up until that very moment? From a psychological standpoint, she considered it beneficial. "Eventually I got hold of the knife. Let's just say… I wasn't the only one getting a late night's sleep."

Sarah could not help to picture the butchered employer in her mind. "You killed him." A grimace appeared on her face as she spoke the obvious. "As you would. Then what? You obviously didn't bother to go to the hospital and get stitches."

Clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth, he hopped off the stage with a smooth landing in front of her. "In my opinion, killing a man doesn't make you want to go to the hospital and see the dying or the dead. Guilt, you could say." There was a long pause. "What kind of sick minded freak are you?" She rolled her eyes, hiding her intimidation. "No, I decided to head home where my lovely, faithful wife was waiting for me." He twitched; his face expressionless. "I tried to explain what happened, not even knowing what state my… 'face' was in. Apparently it was pretty bad," he laughed darkly. "She couldn't drown out her screams when she saw me, despite my pleas for her to let me explain. Eventually I had to drown them out for her."

Sarah's stomach lurched, her heart beating faster. Was it out of sympathy or fear? "Oh my god," she muttered beneath her breath. "You really are just another cold hearted villain. There's no goodness in any of you! None!" She wrathfully began to twist in her chair. "I try to help you people, and all you can think about is the end to the human kind! You're simply incurable!"

"That's not true!" He twisted his face up, pointing the knife in her direction. "No, no, no, no, no, no, no. That's not true. If I wanted that to happen, Gotham would be gone by now!" He stretched his arms out wide. "Trust me! It's just the rats I want to get rid of." Suddenly, he pressed his painted lips against her ear. His sweaty makeup began to rub off against her skin, echoing blood that dripped towards her chin. She tried to move away, but he held her face tightly in his grasp. "You know… the bad guys."

"I can't possibly imagine your definition of bad."

Unamused, he threw her head back and stepped away, sending a firm kick to the edge of the stage. "You don't have to, kid." Twisting his head around, he smiled at her once more. "You don't have to."

~.~.~.~.~.~

"Jonathan Crane, Patient 1772. Escaped Arkham twice in the past year. Also known as Scarecrow." It's amusing to listen to them talk about me as though I were being displayed in a glass case.

The doctor lowers her glasses and stares at me. There is some sense of youth on her face, but her wrinkles disguise it. She's uneasy to look at. I suppose I'll have to endure. "So, Jonathan. Tell me a little about yourself." Her voice interrupts my thoughts.

I could say many things about myself. However, I decide to be brief. That's what all interviewers seem to want these days. "Well, unquoted, I've heard that I'm slightly sexy."

She scoffs, swiftly jotting notes on her paper. I could imagine her writing; 'Speaks the truth.' "Alright, cut the junk. Tell me why you're here."

I couldn't have felt more irritated. "What, your paper doesn't tell you that? What else doesn't your paper tell you?"

"It doesn't tell me enough," she grunts, flipping through her notes. "I understand why you're here… because of your use of drugs and psychological tactics to develop fears and phobias in your enemies. I get all of that, but it doesn't tell me why you're actually in here. Your reason behind all of it."

It seems to me like she truly wants to know. Yet, why should I let these people get inside my head? If I'm not allowed to get inside theirs, what am I gaining from being here? "I need my glasses." When all is lost in conversation, change topic. That's my philosophy anyways. I scrunch my face up and flick back my hair. "I don't know why they took them." Raising my brows, I smirk at her. "Does your paper tell you where they put my glasses?"

Sighing, her glasses slip further down her nose. "It says you don't really need them. They only reason you wear them is because of that puzzling and captivating look you want to give off to people."

Glancing away, I chose to ignore the comment. "I disagree with the fact that I try to develop fears in my enemies. If your paper really says that, that's a ridiculous statement. They probably told you I was a corrupt, sadistic psychiatrist too?" She didn't say anything. "That's what I thought."

"I understand that you used to specialize in psychopharmacology here at Arkham." She muttered rather fast. "It makes no sense to lock you back up here, when you studied the drug-induced changes in mood, sensation, thinking, and behavior. I mean, what is locking you up in here going to do? They're trying to fix you, right? How can they fix you if you're not really insane?" She spoke so quickly, she was out of breath by the end of her speech.

I could feel her wincing under the stare of my blue eyes. Someone once told me they were haunting, intimidating. Looks like drugs aren't the only weapon I have. "Thanks for the compliment," I noted at the end of her sentence. "Yet, that's what I've been wondering. Why lock me in here to begin with? Because I'm a threat." The room felt colder as we spoke. "It won't work. It never has."

"Mr. Crane," she coughed into her hand, slipping back into a more… professional mood. I could tell I was mocking her, scaring her. Briefly, her nametag trickled out from the collar of her jacket. Sarah. "The real question is; why do you want to destroy Gotham so bad? What's your issue with the human race?"

I felt heat rise onto my face. Destroy Gotham? No. That's not what I wanted and it made me cringe to think of all the lies they have said about me. Just thinking about every lie that people slip between their teeth each day… And they say I'm corrupt. "Issues? Is that what people have been telling you? That I have issues with things? I was unaware that Ra's was trying to destroy Gotham."

"Then what did you expect him to do? Hold it hostage?"

"Exactly."

Now she was catching on. "You're telling me that none of your crimes really have to do with your enemies, then?" I shake my head, shrugging. I don't think I really have any enemies. Just roadblocks. "If you don't do it because of revenge, and you don't do it because of order, then what makes you want to spread panic into the minds of the innocent?"

Innocent. The words make me laugh. No one is innocent. Everyone has done something in their lives to make them as guilty enough to go through the punishments selected criminals are faced with. The thought infuriates me, but I shove it from my mind, deciding to focus on her question. After all, this was a private interview. I had to answer something. "I don't commit 'crimes' for attention or cash. I do it for research. If you couldn't tell already, I'm genuinely interested in the human mind. Would it excite you if I told you there's a way to understand why humans feel fear?"

She stares at me for a few moments. Her eyes are lifeless, non-expressing. She seems inwardly lonely. "No." She speaks. "It does not excite me. Not in the slightest. You rob banks. What does that have to do with understanding fear?"

"I have to have money…" I smirk. "…if I want to perform tests. You're smarter than that, you know. Just use your head. Don't always listen to what people tell you, because it's not always right."

"Are you suggesting that I'm stupid?"

"It was implied."

There is a long silence. After a minute or two, she stands up and brushes off her coat. "I think we've talked enough for today. Thank you for your time, Mr. Crane." I figure she'll extend a hand, perhaps as a parting gift, but nothing was given. I incline my head lightly, tipping back in my chair as she leaves the room in a flush.

As she leaves the room, a voice rings out inside my head. I don't recognize it, but I recognize what they are saying. I heard the quote many years ago, and had forgotten about it until now. 'Each forward step we take, we leave some phantom of ourselves behind.'

I think about the phantom that lives in me. It doesn't leave. It walks with me, and it never goes away. I don't want to leave it behind. It will stick with me like my mask. However, I couldn't ignore some part of me that wants to give it up. But, no. I cannot.

It is who I was. It is who I am. It is who I will be.

~.~.~.~.~.~

The movie was nearly half over. Sarah laid weakly in her chair, bored and yet afraid of what was going to happen to her. The cops hadn't showed up. They had to be looking for her… right? The Joker was too dangerous to just ignore. She glances over at him, narrowing her eyes with hatred.

He sits hunched over on the edge of the stage. His chin is cupped in one of his hands as his knife scratches the wood. She can tell he is bored, perhaps as bored as she. He is waiting for someone. Not the cops, but him. Batman. The name strikes out hope in Sarah's brain. She tries to push it aside. She doesn't like to rely on things until they did something for her. It was just her way of living.

"Are you as bored as I am?" He grumbles, kicking his heels against wall. "Because I've seen this movie too many times, and no offense, but you're not really interesting to converse with."

She grunts with a further slump into her chair. "No offense taken. I don't mind if I don't entertain you, or make you happy." He snickers, staring at her with contented eyes. For a second, something in them seems soft. But it soon disappears into the darkness of his eye makeup. "Even if that is my job."

"I guess you don't have to. It's not like I'm going to be paying you." He reaches forward slightly and presses the knife against her cheek. She winces, a sudden rush of coldness stinging her face. "Just smile. It's all a joke, isn't it?" She has no answer and turns her face away. "Aww, come on toots. You're not upset with me, are ya?" Once more, she does not respond. "I see. Not going to waste your breath on me." Giving her thumbs up, he once more sits back away from her. "I picked a pretty good spot to hide in, eh? They sure are taking their sweet time about getting here."

"You could say that again."

"They sure are taking their sweet time about getting here." She scowls at him. "Excuse me, but being obnoxious is my alternative to being bored, alright?" He grumbles. "I'm only using you as bait, Sarah. So stop being sorry for yourself."

"Sorry for myself? What do you mean by that? I'm not sorry. If I were, I'd be pleading for you to let me go." Something about this strikes a chord within the Joker. His fingers scratch his chin delicately, as if contemplating such a notion. "See? I'm actually being a very cooperative hostage. This makes no sense whatsoever."

"Makes sense to me."

"It would make sense to you. Anything ironic makes sense to you." Sarah pauses as he lets out a bitter laugh. The Joker. Full of menace and at the same time joy. However, with her trained eyes, Sarah can spot out fear. Loneliness. Sickness. Poverty. "I always assumed you did the scars yourself, you know." Catching his attention, he sits up quickly with one brow raised.

"Why is that?"

"Because, George Gordon Lord Byron once said; 'What deep wounds ever closed without a scar?' With that statement, I always figured he meant emotional wounds. I thought you had just collapsed, and suddenly developed a growing hatred towards yourself. Finally you decided to turn to anarchy because you were unhappy. Apparently I was wrong." Her dark eyes question him. "Unless you were lying about your story."

The Joker shrugs. "I don't even know who George Lord Trigon Moorden is, so that statement is out of the question." A clearly annoyed expression plants itself across Sarah's face. "On a serious note, however…Things… fall apart. Anarchy breaks loose. The world doesn't just know about it anymore, but they understand."

Sarah stares at the horror movie on the screen as she speaks. Something about it startles her, perhaps the evil clown being so terrifying in her childhood. Now it does not seem so threatening. It is only a film screen. "Not everything gets thrown to waste. Chaos doesn't dissolve from anarchy. It dissolves from virtue. Innocence."

Sighing heavily, he hops to his toes once more. There is a pause of reflection before he inquisitively speaks his thoughts. "The best kinds of people in this world lack all kinds of conviction." Rolling his head around, his shadowy eyes burn into her skin. "Y'see… people… people like you, the passionate ones…" He frowns slightly with a minute shrug. "… They don't last."

"Oh? And what makes you so sure?" Sarah boldly states. "Look who you're speaking to. A doctor who works with the criminally insane. I think in my years, I've learned what kind of people last and which do not."

"So you think you understand us!?" He rises onto his toes, allowing for his slim body to tower over her. "You think we're crazy. Tell me Sarah, what kinds of people don't last?" She holds her breath, not wanting her fright to illustrate. "Which ones are you talking about?"

"T-the ones who don't listen!" She chokes through clenched teeth. "The ones who don't try to help themselves, or do and exclude the rest of the world around them!"

"You think force doesn't work?"

"Understanding works."

A look of confusion and disbelief was suddenly splatters onto The Joker's grim face. His body begins to shake, as though he cannot believe what she had said. In a flash, his gloved hands grip her shoulders as he angrily spits in her face. "You… you can't just sit back and wait! You have to take the iron while it's still hot and strike! Brutality is what really gets them to understand you. Because, news flash- they don't!" Sarah thinks to herself about all of the times she tried to help someone but they refused to cooperate. There were far too many. "The only words they seem to hear from you people are: Crazy, Mad, Lunatic. Show them what it takes to get them to listen to you." He loosens up his grip, stepping back towards the stage. "Show them power. Then they'll start listening."

His words hadn't reached her soul. Sarah was a good-hearted woman who was able to control herself. She could never be brutal. "Are you suggesting that violence is the answer?" The Joker simply smiles as he pulls open the side of his jacket. A lump grows inside her throat as he displays his collection of bombs and guns. "Oh right. I forgot who I was talking to…"

"They don't hold any of that fear. They like themselves. Trust me, I've talked to every man and woman you've got locked up in that putrid trench hole."

"Oh you have? Then tell me. What do they say?"

His finger slowly taps the bottom of his chin. It was obvious he had a response. It was all about the demonstration however, when giving the response. For The Joker, it had to be elaborate, almost professional and interesting. "They say they like it." Sarah can feel her ankles and writs going numb from loss of blood. She tries not to complain, but to focus on his words. "They like the ferocity. They say it makes you seem more like them… more real. In general, they just find you amusing." As Sarah opens her mouth to explain, he clamps a quick hand over it. "You're afraid of life! You're afraid of what everyone will think of you. That's what makes you weak. That's what makes the passionate ones fade out from the world."

Biting down on his palm, Sarah finally sets her mouth free. Furiously, he begins to pace back and forth, massaging his hand meanwhile. Sarah feels a nervous twitch in her stomach. He's right. "I suppose you've hidden somewhere in your words about how I stop becoming passionate."

"The innocent and the beautiful alike…" His head flicks back as his eyes close. She had noticed they were green. As a child they may have been pure. "... They have only one thing that can stop them. One thing that can take them down."

"What's that?" She whispers with a genuine curiosity in her voice.

He doesn't answer right away. Sarah stares at him quizzically, waiting. All he does is bring his hands to his face. Slowly, inch-by-inch, he begins to smear the make up off his face. She doesn't understand why he is doing this. Why would she want to see what he really looked like? Had anyone ever seen him in his normal state before? Her heart beats faster the more she sees tan flesh. Finally, most of his make up is gone, but his hands are still covering his face. She waits for his answer. "Time." He hisses and removes his hands.

Her face grows hot. Her heart rattles against her ribs to escape. She feels sick, woozy and faint. Her eyes are deceiving her. They must be! She couldn't be looking at him. No, not him. It was impossible. Of course she remembers him. It had been so long. So long since he'd looked at her with affection and hope. So long since he'd told her how he felt about her. She remembered him. Of course she did.

How could she forget? She whispers his birth name with infinite sadness, but the laughing of the clown on the movie screen drowns out her voice.

~.~.~.~.~.~

"I'm getting too old for this." My master spoke clearly, snapping on more pieces of his elaborate costume. "Don't you think so, Alfred? I mean, what's some middle aged man like me doing running on the streets?"

I shook my head, setting down the dinner he hardly ate on his equipment table. "I keep trying to tell you that, sir. However, you never seem to listen."

"No one does anything, that's why. Gotham needs a protector." He slowly set his mask down, that young innocent look planted across his face. Sometimes his innocence was quite noticeable. Perhaps that's just because I've known him his whole life. Yet, I recognized that look very well. It was when Master Wayne was worrying. "Gotham's a horrible place now and I'm afraid that I'm the only one that can help."

"Why do you think that, sir?" Normally, I assumed it was because he was the only one helping. However, Master Wayne liked to elaborate on his thoughts, so naturally I'd let him.

"Every day I wake up and read a new headline about another lunatic running around Gotham. First Crane, then Joker, then Riddler, and… who's this new guy?"

I scooped up the morning paper once more in my hand. "His calls himself Anarky, sir." Bruce waved his hand, motioning for me to continue. "He's young, that's for sure. Wears a red cape, a red jumpsuit, a red hat and a gold face mask."

"So, we don't know what he looks like?"

Shrugging, I set the paper back down. "I don't think you really need to, sir. I think he'd be quite easy to spot from a mile away, don't you?" Bruce chuckled at this while routinely slipping on a utility belt. "Apparently he's violent, but he's non-lethal."

Smiling at that comment, Bruce picked up his bat-like cowl and cupped it in his hands. "That's always good, no?" Sighing, he placed it over his head. "I guess him and I should go have a chat about a few things. Don't you think so, Alfred?"

Nodding, I stepped out of his way. "One thing before you go, Master Wayne."

"What's that?"

I thought back to what he was speaking of earlier… about getting too old to do what he does. "I understand that you're tired, sir. I really do. However, I often really forget you are Bruce and want to call you 'Batman'… but luckily it never slips out in public."

Bruce managed a tight smile.

"My friend once told me something about heroes and what that means to someone. The point is, sir… Everyone is a hero. The problem is trying to remain that way when people need it most. The ones that do might just be the best of us."

He stared at me for a moment, a brief nod given. After that he turned and walked off with his cape swishing heroically behind him. I thought to myself once more.

There's no way you'll be able to leave Batman, sir, and there's no way he can ever leave you.