Author's Note: since I couldn't resist and I was feeling a little underwhelmed by the events of Batman #653, I decided to scribe an interpretation of it myself; I leave its success and meaning to you, Fair Readers. The story below borrows from Dark Victory, The Long Halloween, No Man's Land, Hush, and even some latter-day stories in Batman: Gotham Knights. We begin at the end of Detective Comics 819, part 5 of the current Face the Face arc. Enjoy.
"Go away."
I can't. You know that.
"I have enough on my mind. The last thing I need—"
No, I'm what you need the most, Harvey. With me, everything makes sense. Look at me, Harvey.
"No."
Look at me!
There. Now. It's time we talked.
"God..."
I think he's taken you off speed-dial, Harvey.
Jesus…those people.
What people?
"I…I blew up that apartment."
Yeah. To escape Bats. He was going to take you downtown in cuffs, you know that? You should. Now that he's back he has no use for you anymore. That's why I'm here. Because you know we were great together.
"Maybe."
No, there's no maybe about it.
Dent buries his face in his hands. Despite the darkness ofa stingy motel room, he feels...hot. Uncomfortable. "And blowing the place up. Jesus, I killed all those people."
I'm curious; did you pay Elliot to give you a heart, too?
"They're people goddamn it! Not some animals in a lab."
No. They're unenlightened souls. And you used to be one of them. Hell, you still are. After Elliot 'cured' you…shit, you couldn't even jaywalk much less pull a good old-fashioned stick-up. Harvey Dent, the good citizen.
"Elliot did me a favor."
Sure, just like he did favors for Pam and the Claypeople. Lie to yourself again.
"I'm not lying!"
You went to him after you heard he settled Nigma's hash and asked him to do the same for you. He may have done it, but his motives, well, they were...suspect. No more miracles for you, Harvey. You used up the last bit of cosmic pity you had when you outed Billie Jean King during the No Man's Land. Nothing you've done since then has been remotely repentant.
"Her name is Montoya."
Fine. Point is…you've played your hand. You're out. Shit you should be so lucky that Bats came to you when he did.
"I wish I were dead…"
Yeah, that's encouraging. You're not a plebian anymore--not with me around.
"It's better than the alternative."
Alternative? Harvey, I'm not an alternative. I'm the way it is. The way it's always been. Pull your head out of your ass.
"Shut up."
No. Not until you get wise and figure out that the best thing ever happened to you…was me. Better than sex. Better than heroin. Weed. Alcohol. Ecstacy. Any and all of it. Admit it, and we can end this discussion. Admit I'm getting to you.
"But…"
But what? Gilda? She's gone, Harvey. Or maybe that whore Porter—that bitch who took your place? Dead.
Everyone is dead or gone or doesn't care about you anymore. Listen, boopsie, no one loves Harvey Dent—not anymore. You don't even love yourself as much as I do. If you did, we wouldn't be having this discussion.
"Go away."
You can't run from your problems, Harvey. I think your father taught you that by taking the problems to you.
"My father—"
A human piece of shit, is that it? Sure, fine, I'll give you that. But he was right—get over yourself, Harvey; the world isn't sugarplums and wives who wait for you every night. The wives die, and all that's left of you is a bitter old man who drinks too much and is obsessed with impressing people who don't matter. People like Bats.
"It's not...it's not like that."
Sure it is. 'The Tragedy of Harvey Dent.' In forty years, Broadway snobs will know all about you, because that's what your life is. One. Massive. Tragedy. Birth to death. Poor Harvey Dent: always on the sharp end of the sword, always getting screwed over, never getting his fair shake and when he thinks he's getting one, some asshole throws acid in his face and we all die a little inside.
"It's not like that."
Then what was it like, Harv? You and Maroni dance under the stars and the acid just slipped out of his hand in mid-waltz? If it's not quite like that…it soon will be.
"What?"
You know what I'm talking about. If you haven't noticed it already—and you probably haven't—there's a glass bottle of acid on the sink basin. Right there. And a scalpel next to it.
"I can't."
So you've said. So you've been saying. I think the argument's wearing thin. So unscrew the lid and pull a little personal Maroni—
"Maroni's dead! They're all dead!"
Not my point. After Maroni made things a little more bearable up here, you were somebody—or at least, you became somebody. You killed The Roman for Chrissakes. Had it not been for Bats, you'd be in City Hall. You'd be untouchable.
"The Roman doesn't matter anymore."
Then did we keep him on ice for all those years? Trying to impress the neighbors? Face facts. You were smart, Harvey—still are. Better than the clown, better than that slut in the cat-suit, better than Cobblepot. And having me, well, we've talked about that haven't we? But you can make things the way they were. Maybe…make them even better. Like I said…Batman came back. Now he doesn't care what happens to you. You could jump off the Davenport and he'd call it a day. He's jealous, Harvey. He took what was yours. What still can be yours.
So pick up the bottle. Do what you want, for a change.
"No. I won't."
Yes you will. Because you have no choice.
"I'd sooner kill myself and let you go down with me."
So dramatic. I've missed that about you. Put the world in your hands again, Harvey, and make a decision. You used to be good at them.
"When you were making them for me."
I was under the impression that it was that curiously-designed coin your old man gave you. But I've been wrong before. What do you say you give it a toss? Let fate decide where we go from here.
"Like hell."
For old time's sake. Batman doesn't care about you anymore. You know it, I know it. And that's…well, that's a mental majority, isn't it?
Dent's hand slides into his pocket and produces the coin. The silver gleams in the darkness. He hesitates only for a second. Flip.
It lands. Heads.
Ah. Look at that.
"Let's go."
End...