There still aren't happy tales in this world of ours but the fact remains that you never wanted me to tell them. So I will not. I will tell you of the owners of that burned out SUV on the side of the road, of the little girls staring vacantly at what used to be their house. Of heroes who lost their way. Of the heroes who lost their hearts. You - and subsequently, I - grew sick of the hero always wins, unquestioningly wavering that line, until the question remains. If the victor writes history, what would be the victim's insight? The Batman created his Joker - threw him into his madness with his own bare hands. What created ours? Did we?