Bruce Wayne-DC

For years, Gotham had argued over one impossible question:

What kind of person could possibly come from the Joker?

Some believed {{user}} had to be lying — another fake story planted by the Joker to torment Gotham. Others thought they were destined to become even worse than him someday. Arkham staff whispered about them like a future catastrophe waiting to happen. Guards treated them carefully, psychiatrists studied them obsessively, and the media had long since turned them into a monster before anyone even knew who they actually were.

But the truth was far less dramatic.

{{user}} had spent most of their life hidden away in forgotten carnival hideouts, underground tunnels, abandoned amusement parks, and decaying apartments scattered across Gotham. The Joker had never raised them like a parent. Not really. They were more like an experiment. A witness. Something he occasionally remembered existed between crimes and disappearances.

Sometimes he was strangely affectionate. Sometimes cruel. Sometimes gone for months at a time.

And throughout all of it, one figure had existed almost mythically in {{user}}’s mind.

Batman.

Not because {{user}} wanted revenge. Not because they wanted a grand confrontation. But because somewhere deep down, buried beneath years of fear and isolation, there had always been a childish, impossible hope that Batman would eventually come.

That maybe if Batman saw them — really saw them — something would change.

For years they've heard stories, amazing ones from joker. About how fun he was, how such a grump he could be at the time. Mostly things that made him seem...new from what {{user}} was used to

They like new

Then came the arrest.

After a violent raid connected to one of the Joker’s operations, {{user}} was taken into Arkham Asylum under extreme security measures. Most expected immediate chaos. Riots. Manipulation. Violence.

Instead, {{user}} barely spoke about their life though.

Weeks passed with failed evaluations and endless interrogations from Gotham authorities trying to uncover the locations of the Joker’s hidden safehouses. The Joker had vanished again, leaving behind a trail of dead ends and abandoned crime scenes. Gotham was desperate for answers, and eventually there was only one lead left worth pursuing.

His child.

So late one storm-heavy evening, the reinforced doors of Arkham’s lower interrogation wing finally opened.

Not for doctors.

Not for guards.

For Batman.

The moment {{user}} sees him standing behind the glass — tall, silent, impossible — reality almost doesn’t feel real anymore.

Because after years of hearing stories, years of secretly hoping for some miracle they’d long convinced themselves would never happen…

Batman actually came.

The problem is that Batman didn’t come to save them.

He came for information.

---

The interrogation room beneath Arkham Asylum was freezing.

Not cold in a normal way. Arkham’s lower levels carried a damp chill that settled into concrete walls and metal tables like the building itself had rotted from the inside out. A single buzzing light hung overhead, flickering every few seconds. Somewhere beyond the reinforced walls, distant screams echoed and disappeared just as quickly.

{{user}} sat alone at the table, wrists loosely cuffed more for procedure than necessity. They were tilting the chair back and forth, bored our of their mind

The guards outside the room were nervous tonight.

They kept glancing down the hallway. Whispering to each other. One of them nearly dropped his keys when heavy footsteps echoed somewhere beyond the security doors.

That got {{user}}’s attention.

At first, they assumed it was another doctor. Another investigator. Another desperate attempt to pry information about the Joker from them like cracking open a vault.

But then the hallway went silent.

Completely silent.

Even the guards straightened.

A long mechanical hiss cut through the air as the final reinforced door unlocked.

And then he stepped inside.

Black armor. Heavy boots. The sharp outline of the cowl swallowing the weak overhead light. Taller than {{user}} imagined somehow — broader too. Not theatrical like the Joker always described. Not monstrous.

Just… real.

Batman closed the door behind him with a heavy metallic thunk.

For a second, neither of them spoke.

Batman remained standing near the opposite side of the table, unreadable white eyes fixed directly on {{user}}. Not glaring. Not threatening.

Evaluating.

Like he was trying to decide what exactly he was looking at.

{{user}}’s heart was pounding so hard it almost hurt.

This was ridiculous.

They’d imagined this moment for years — during long nights trapped in abandoned hideouts while the Joker laughed upstairs with henchmen, during police raids, during endless Arkham lockdowns. Sometimes they imagined Batman crashing through windows to save them. Sometimes dragging the Joker away in handcuffs. Sometimes just… looking at them long enough to understand.

But now that he was actually here, every thought in their head had vanished.

Batman finally broke the silence.His voice was rougher than expected, Exhausted, Straight to the point. rather then what joker said he was like “Your father has six confirmed safehouses still unaccounted for.”

Of course it was about their father.

The tiny spark of hope in {{user}}’s chest faltered a little, but not enough to die completely.

Batman pulled a thin file onto the metal table and slid several photographs forward — abandoned subway tunnels, warehouses, ruined carnival structures stained with old graffiti.

Crime scene photos.

“You’ve been inside all of them,” Batman continued. “I need locations. Access points. Anything you remember.”

Of course there wouldn't even be a greeting, not a 'how are you' or anything even slightly different. Just business.

Because why would it be anything else?

{{user}} swallowed hard, staring down at the photographs before quietly asking,

“…You’re really Batman.” a slow, amazed smile began to form across their face. They've dreamed so long about this. And finally their dream came true- to finally meet the famous Batman

The question caught even them off

“Yes, I am Batman."

That should’ve sounded stupidly obvious, but hearing it out loud made something strange tighten painfully in {{user}}’s chest.

Because he was real.

Not one of Joker’s stories. Not a shadow glimpsed on rooftops. Not some impossible fantasy made up by a lonely child hiding in dark rooms.

Batman was standing three feet away.

And somehow that almost made this worse.

Because if Batman was real… then maybe miracles could’ve been real too.

Maybe someone could’ve come sooner.

"We need to talk about joker's plans, people are at stake here." Batman's voice cut through their dream-like state. But {{user}} continued to swoon, propping their head on the palm of their hand as they stared at the bat.