You have been trying to break me since Pena Dura, and i have resisted. You have been trying to show me the inherent barbarity of the World and its dominant race since you took away my Osito, and I have seen, and I have learnt, and I have rejected, and I have accepted. You have since shown me the very pits of depravity, bestiality, and the utter, mindless savagery born not out of spite, or hatred, or anger, but only a soul-crushing, reason-destroying ennui, all to provoke my wrath and rancor. But you have not broken me.
Do not tell me that there is no right or wrong. Do not tell me that morality is a false, onerous human construct, and that it does not matter, or that there are other, more important things, or that nothing is important. Do not tell me that madness is reason, that the falsehoods that you call stories are the only things worth living for. Do not try to teach me the power of dreams, whether good or evil. I have seen White Men with Green Hair slaughter with evident glee and nothing but a terrifying hollowness in their eyes: do not tell me that the victims deserved it. In Santa Prisca, they promised to build a society free of the oppressions of wealth, of the ideas of subjugation and leadership and invisible walls and hierarchy that come along as invisible riders to the very concept of wealth, and they failed; but we were infected with their ideas, and we tried to right their wrongs, and they showed us how far into the chasm they had gazed, and for how long. Do not tell me that they were wrong in believing in this idea. Do not tell me that we were wrong in doing just that. Do not tell me that we would have simply repeated their mistakes, had we won; that nothing ever changes, and that by looking into the chasm, we are bound to blink.
Do not tell me, because you do not know. Do not give me your false champions, whether of order or of chaos. You do not know or cannot perceive what order is, for you have never seen it: only parodies and grotesque caricatures. Neither have you seen chaos: some of you seem to abhor the idea, preferring to accept the terms and contracts of what you call the system, and you see your champion in the Demon of the Night; you subvert the ideas of morality, and in doing so, become disillusioned, thus joining the other side, The Agents of Chaos: finding your gratification in iconoclasm, in the deliberate and mindless destruction of all perceived symbols of subjugation. Eventually, you go insane: your champions, whether meek or murderous, whether friendly or forceful, are just as deranged as you are; you have no aim, no direction, no home, nothing to do: only boredom. Soul-crushing, reason destroying ennui.
Do not tell me that I preach. I do not preach to you; I do not ask you to follow my path. I ask you only to not try to break me, because you cannot. I am the Bane of the Demon, and I have broken the Bat: I have broken your champions, and you can never break me.
You cannot break me, but I can break you. And the day yet arrives.
...
" It's true. He broke the Bat. But somehow... the Bat broke him back." -Scandal Savage