A/N: Um...I'm actually not sure where this came from. It really just came out of nowhere, hit me in the back of the head, tied me up, hijacked my keyboard, and this is what I was left with. Enjoy!
Disclaimer: In a hundred years, when I've won the lottery, maybe it'll be mine. But probably not.
One man leaping off rooftops, fighting crime, attempting to make a difference is called a vigilante.
The public scorns and loves him at the same time, because he is standing up for what he believes in; because he is standing up and revealing himself as a fool for thinking that he could change things.
Bruce Wayne stares into the mirror, half-fogged from his scorching shower, and he doesn't see his reflection. He doesn't see a playboy billionaire. Instead, what stares back at him is Batman's masked visage, dark and intense.
Instead, he sees the faces of those who have been killed because he chose to take a stand. Those who attempted to do good, who found themselves targets.
Each of those faces stares right back at him, accusing. They died because he wasn't fast enough, wasn't strong enough, couldn't be in five places at once. They died because he pissed off those in power, because he chose to fight.
He knows the faces of evil. The face of Crane, the face of the Joker, the face of Harvey Dent. He knows the faces of petty criminals, or of those who have murdered, raped, mugged.
And he wonders, staring at his reflection of lost souls, whether or not his face too is a face of evil.