[Joker's knuckles shattered when his fist hit Stark, and he could feel the bone give way; it was a red hot, burning sensation that blitzed up his arm, almost comforting in its familiarity. Once he'd followed through and Stark's lip was split and his hand was throbbing, though, he found it had done nothing to stop the sick feeling in his chest, the guilt. All it had done was break his hand.]

I thought I had you figured out, Stark, but now I don't think I did.

[There was still venom staining his voice and he wouldn't have been able to get it out even if he'd wanted to.]

Hell, does anyone know you at all? Is there anything there under all that fucking arrogance and self-importance? 'Cause all I hear right now is you trying to shift blame onto a dead man, so either you can't see past your own ego or you actually think it's his fault that you weren't able to do your job.