"It just means that I wasn't good enough," the answer was snapped out, almost unthinking- but sincere. His hand clenched hard against the ledge, leather fighting against concrete, and Bruce hissed out a short, sharp breath. That was true, wasn't it? His first encounter with the Joker, he had let so many of them die before he finally caught up to him. Until he finally figured out how that man's thought processes. Until he could think like him as easily as he could think as Batman, as Bruce Wayne, as Matches Malone. As any of the crooks on Gotham's streets.
But he brushed the anger away, concentrating on what Jim was saying. There was something strange here, something different. A Joker that planned ahead wasn't a Joker that he was unfamiliar with, neither was him burning his money. But there was no audience- Jim had only heard of it. The Joker he knew liked the spectacle.
Shipping the prisoners out by ferry. Burning the mob's money. Figuring out that Jim Gordon had faked his death. Threatening death until the Batman exposed himself- wanting the Batman to expose himself. For the sake of--
There. That was the problem. That was it. That was precisely the difference.
His hand clenched into a fist, smacking against concrete again. In that moment, he saw nothing with his eyes.
"He's not a performer. He has a goal." Pieces upon pieces. The Joker. A gun muzzle. Barbara Gordon. Sending Jim Gordon into that nightmare ride, watching and laughing. In contrast to- driving Harvey Dent mad in a hospital, without an audience to watch Harvey's downfall. Placing the gun in Harvey's hand. Hiding away, giggling.
The pieces fitted in front of him, and the man that Gordon saw spread out in front of him. When he smiled, it was far too sharp.
"He wants to make everyone just like he is. Just as mad." He thought back, fifteen years ago, and he shook his head. The problem he had with the Joker was that he had no goal, and yet, here- here he did. "I should have been able to deal with him."
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But he brushed the anger away, concentrating on what Jim was saying. There was something strange here, something different. A Joker that planned ahead wasn't a Joker that he was unfamiliar with, neither was him burning his money. But there was no audience- Jim had only heard of it. The Joker he knew liked the spectacle.
Shipping the prisoners out by ferry. Burning the mob's money. Figuring out that Jim Gordon had faked his death. Threatening death until the Batman exposed himself- wanting the Batman to expose himself. For the sake of--
There. That was the problem. That was it. That was precisely the difference.
His hand clenched into a fist, smacking against concrete again. In that moment, he saw nothing with his eyes.
"He's not a performer. He has a goal." Pieces upon pieces. The Joker. A gun muzzle. Barbara Gordon. Sending Jim Gordon into that nightmare ride, watching and laughing. In contrast to- driving Harvey Dent mad in a hospital, without an audience to watch Harvey's downfall. Placing the gun in Harvey's hand. Hiding away, giggling.
The pieces fitted in front of him, and the man that Gordon saw spread out in front of him. When he smiled, it was far too sharp.
"He wants to make everyone just like he is. Just as mad." He thought back, fifteen years ago, and he shook his head. The problem he had with the Joker was that he had no goal, and yet, here- here he did. "I should have been able to deal with him."