Disclaimer: No Copyright Infringement Intended. That being said, references to Christopher Nolan's Dark Knight and DC Comics Batman will be made in this Fan Fic. All rights to characters in the following story are held solely by the abovementioned.

Being a fan of the Dark Knight movies, this story would be set after TDK, and would be my suggestion on how a third movie would sound like.

And with out further adieu….

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That's it then. You either die a hero, or you live long enough to see yourself become the villain. Nothing could be more true. They had set the dogs on him. The beacon they used to call him, was ripped down from atop the Major Crimes Unit. Warrants came out for his arrest. Threats on the news. Gotham was out for Batman's blood. He was the vigilante that was feared by all.

And in the midst of all the hatred that was turned on him, he continued to prowl the night, as save the innocent and young from the drug dealers, pimps and murderers out on Gotham's streets. And every morning, when he returned home, it became that much harder to don the mask again in the evening.

Bruce Wayne sat on the metal bar stool in front of the glass case that held the Bat suit holding the mask and looking at the hollow eyes. He flinched a little as Alfred pushed the needle into the back of his shoulder blade, making the final stitch, on a new wound he received that night.

"There, another one. Sown up and cleaned." He watched as Bruce stood, and turned to face him. He looked down at the mask again, then up at Alfred.

"Alfred, its worse every night. Its like I turned into the very monsters I've been fighting. When I come out of the shadows, children scream, criminals they say things like, 'what are you doing to do shoot me like you shot those cops?' Some people don't want to be saved by Batman."

He grasped the mask tighter. "I've seen what I have become Alfred, they don't need me…" The older man looked at his charge. It had gotten harder. He remembered only a few nights ago, rushing into the car, hurrying along the alleyways looking for him beaten broken. Helping Bruce up from amidst boxes and trash bags. A bloodied and broken mess he was, when Alfred came upon him half dead, the knife still in his side, shot in the thigh… Alfred lifted his hands to his eyes trying to shake the memory of almost losing him.. Again.

"Sir, Why do we fall?" Alfred asked. Bruce smiled.

"So that we may learn to pick ourselves up again. You haven't given up on me yet, Alfred"

"Never. Now listen, Gotham doesn't really have a choice in the matter. Until someone else comes along, they are just going to have to do with you."

"I wasn't meant to inspire hatred."

"Batman can be whatever they want him to be. That's just the magic of Batman. He can be the hero, and he can be the villain. He can carry that burden. Master Wayne, when you decided to do this, it was because you knew Batman could transcend what any man could not. Batman is not just the man, he is the idea, a legend."

"I don't know if I can bare the burden Batman has put on me!" Bruce threw the mask at the marble wall. It hit the wall with a thud. He looked around at the snow white floor, the black marble desk with computers on it, at the Bat Suit and sighed. "Alfred, I was meant to inspire good. Not hatred."

"But you have inspired good, Master Wayne. Look at the crime rate, its down. Look at the people in Gotham that don't fear the night anymore, because they know that you are watching over them, keeping them safe." He walked past him and set the mask in the case that held the suit and closed it. He stepped back and the case sank into the floor, and it sealed up like nothing was ever there before.

"Safe. Rachel died thinking I was going to keep her safe." Alfred winced. Bruce had lost faith in the world after she died. He walked over the younger man and put his arm on his shoulder.

"Master Wayne, did I ever tell you about the time I was in the Baltic lands, during the struggle for power and control of the sea ways?"

"No, Alfred."

"Well, the various cities appointed their own leaders, some were ruthless, some compassionate to the public. But none were like Mikalov Sarkova. He was loved by his people. He protected them and kept them safe. But being in a position where he was charged with keeping his people safe, he had to make decisions that were not agreed with, but decisions that were right for his people. The people rioted, hated him. He was so loved and in a matter of time, he became hated. People threw rocks at him when he walked the streets. His wife Iliana was murdered in her bed. People wanted nothing to do with him. But when the Dutch came to their front door and Germany was pounding on the back door, who, Master Wayne, do you think they turned too?"

Bruce shook his head and pulled his coat over the shirt he put on. It was becoming a very cold November.

But it was only about to become colder.

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Author's Note: What do you think?