Why? (Flashback) [Batman]

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(((OOC note:I'd just like to try this thread slightly differently. You'll see what I mean. Takes place after the first time The Joker has been incarcerated after the murder of Jason Todd.)))

I'm not sure what it is about the room that's making me feel slightly more on edge about being in it than I usually am. I'm in here nearly every week, feeding some bullshit to some jumped up college boy who thinks he's a psychiatrist because Mommy and Daddy paid him through his degree. But this time it's different. Arkham and Gordon usually trust you to be alone with me because they like to think that they know you yet this time, they watch behind the glass. The little pep-talk Gordon have before you came in. The armed guards. Cash statiomed just outside with a set of keys so he can bust in here at any moment. Something's different. But then again why shouldn't be. Everything's changed now. You thought you were safe, that you were all safe. Unreachable. Untouchable. But not anymore. I win, for the first time in however long we've been doing this, I win. Everyday day of my miserable life, I've been planning for this day. The day when I finally reduce the Bat to nothing more than he really is. Mortal. Human. Yes, he does feel anger. Yes, he does feel pain. But most of all, most of all: Guilt. He feels guilt. It's his fault. All of it. He could have stopped me. Could have saved him. But he didn't. He daren't. He wouldn't, because he knew what it was going to take to stop me. He knew what he had to do and he wouldn't do it. 

Listen to me, talking about you as if you're not even here. You're stood opposite me, hands clenched so tight they could turn coal into diamonds. Your knuckles slammed into the table. I can see the dents from where you've been pushing down to prevent yourself from planting one straight on my jaw. I can see you, gritting your teeth and sweating. You're mad. Very mad. And not because you've lost the boy, oh no. Just because you've lost full stop. That's it. That's the reason I'm still sitting here and not buried in that smoking pile of rubble along with the kid. You've lost. Beaten at your own game. But for once in my laugh, I find myself doing one thing. Not laughing. Not that this isn't funny. I find it hilarious that the self proclaimed protector of Gotham's civilians and citizens can't even handle himself well enough to save one of his own. Oh no, I'm not laughing because I'm afraid. I'm terrified. Because I know that after what happens in this room, our relationship will never be the same. Maybe you'll kill me in here, now you've ha time to think about it? Maybe you'll kill yourself as you can't live with the constant trauma of it all? Maybe you'll just put me in a body cast and try and forget about it? Who knows? But one thing is for certain, you're a changed man now. A man after my own heart.

We've sat silence now for a good twenty minutes. Seen as though you were never the talkative sort I'll throw you a bone and get this conversation started, because that's what you dragged me in for isn't it? For information, for insight? Well, I'll give it to you in time, I just want to see that final crack in vase and watch the pieces all come tumbling down.

"How've ya been? You look good, y'know, for a guy in mourning..."

[Deleted]

Batman ground his teeth. His eyes had never left the Joker’s. Not that anyone could see what he was looking at, behind the white lenses of his mask, but there was no doubt where his eyes had been this past twenty minutes. The Joker was still the Joker, even if he wasn’t laughing, even if he wasn’t fiddling with gadgets or a toy like a little boy that just couldn’t stay still. Batman didn’t think the Joker was bored; he knew the Joker was enjoying the show, waiting for Batman to break, to fall apart, to become the rabid dog that would need to be put down. Batman, though, was also good at the waiting game. He wasn’t waiting for a laugh, or an attack, or anything usual from the Joker. He was waiting for him to break the silence because that was one of the things that the clown just couldn’t tolerate: not playing to his audience.

After the Joker spoke, the Dark Knight waited for another ten minutes. He didn’t move. He didn’t act. He didn’t respond. He just stood there, his knuckles bearing down on the table and leaving marks behind that future interview participants would find disquieting. When he did move, it wasn’t with anger, though he was certainly angry. His movements were steady and measured, neither slow nor fast. Batman rose from the chair. He could almost feel the shifting of weight behind the mirror as those watching fidgeted, wondering if it was too early to stop this now, but compelled to wait until something had gone wrong. He heard the keys jingle behind the door, the guard wondering if this was the time to jump in, wanting to be Johnny-On-The-Spot when the time came, and not a second sooner.

The Dark Knight turned his back on the Joker and walked toward the door. He hadn’t said a word, and that had the police on edge. He approached the door, and his cloak and body hid his hands from the cameras as he examined the space between the door and the frame along the handle. Seconds later, he inspected the hinge side, then stepped away entirely. He looked up in the room, counting the cameras. He knew how many feeds there were; that was a very good indication of the number of cameras. He found four clearly visible in the room and two more hidden. He marked their locations in his mind and then turned his attention toward the glass. That would be the easy part.

“I’ll survive.” Batman’s voice was usually gruff and gravelly. Now, it was deeper than ever. "That's what I do."

He took three etched vials and threw them at the window. A black powder with silvery flecks in it exploded outward and then drifted back toward the window like it was caught in a back draft. The powder coated the window in seconds, completely blocking vision through it. The touch of a button on his belt ignited the traces of termite found in the steel he’d shoved between door and jamb, welding the doors to the frames nearly instantly. Batarangs flew at the cameras, small explosions destroying each of them. A glance at the window told him the microscopic robots had coated the window and linked together, covering it completely with a very durable and self-sealing blind. The room was designed to be secure, to keep people from getting out. Now, it would be up to the police to figure out how to get in.

“Killing you would solve so many problems,” Batman agreed to the unspoken message. “So many lives could be saved. Their deaths aren’t on my head, though; they’re on yours. It’s not my place to determine whether or not you live or die. I’m not God. But I can assure you that you are never going to be strong enough to break me.”