Joker
He has been starved, brutalised, buried under the
loaded metal weight of a gun. His eyes are as cold
and dead as basalt. There is no fire within them, no
visible spark. Flames were quelched in his childhood,
each routine dousing them, buried, leaving smouldering
coal in his stomach.
He prides himself in perfect logic - perfect action -
perfect elimination. A full fighting machine, all
else reduced to scrap, broken down and cracked,
forgotten.
Until now. Until people interfere and change things.
Force him to rebuild.
There is no moment of enlightenment. There is not a
final epiphany, nor a flash of sudden understanding.
He must unlearn what he has learned - dismantle the
machine, reconstruct the other parts. He cannot do it
for her; he cannot do it for him, or for any of them.
He must do it for himself.
Mission accepted.
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