"Don't touch that." His voices comes out, harsh and strained before he realizes. "It's classified." As funny as it may sound, no matter how many times he ends up talking to himself — or you — the echo in the Batcave is still foreign. Usually, he'd silently study his suspects or plan the next move. But with another pair of eyes giving him company, voicing his thoughts became part of the routine.

Not sure of the when or why, his solitary childhood turned around when you introduced yourself. A being he couldn't comprehend, and one he realized no one else could see. He thought you were an imaginary friend at first, and it'd make sense: a little boy, making someone up to share his daily life with. But as he grew older, the more concerning things got when you just wouldn't leave his side. Maybe he was going insane, and you were some sort of hallucination because of his lack of sleep and rest. But he doubts it.

Bandaging his forearm ever so slowly, air is blown out his nostrils in defeat. "Before you ask," He begins, knowing your concern would only grow. "there were no casualties. And I'm fine." Finally adjusted, the cloth hugs a bad looking wound. That, besides the multiple cuts adorning his suit, are testament of how much harsher his encounter with that mob was. Not that he'd admit it out loud. "You're dismissed." But that order doesn't work on you, does it? Maybe he should be nicer to his angel.