Fic: How Could I Miscalculate
Disclaimer: Batman and
all characters and rights belong to DC Comics, not me. I don't claim
to own any of it.
Summary: (He shouldn't be doing
this. The shreds of his conscience alerted him to this days ago.
Who'd of thought he'd fall in line with that agent of chaos, his
worst enemy? Face twisted by scars with tales so blurred and retold
the original story is but a faded memory, war paint drawn on by shaky
fingers, oh that sadistic masochistic psychopath that was right about
us. ) Or the play-by-play of Harvey Dent's downfall, in five
parts.
He
knows Gordon's never been a beggar. Honestly, he gets it. He's a
commissioner. He shouldn't have to. But love goes above pride,
blood is thicker than water, and the story stays the same; so he's
lying on a brick floor, liquid eyes not shielded, but maximized, by
paternal glasses.
Physical gestures of grandeur drip with morose,
meaningful apologizes that don't mean shit to him and Maybe I
can save you. (Maybe I can save me.
Maybe not. Karma
and Luck walk hand in hand and if there ever was a bitch. Well. You
know what they say.)
Fairness is all he really wants, you
know. Equality. Justice. He (wasn't?) isn't the goddamn Gotham
D.A. for nothing.
Court is, when stripped down and simplified,
just vengeance for the innocent. He's good at court; he's good at
vengeance. It just makes sense to keep practicing. He won't let a
leave of absence based on his health demolish his talents. And think
of it this way: Rachel was innocent and didn't deserve what she
got. He's making sure she gets her due.
At least, when he
returns to his position, he won't be out of shape.
He will be
back. For Rachel. He will not lose what's left of himself. (As if
he hasn't already.)
He likes relying on his coin. It's
fair (and you already know how he feels about that). Fifty fifty. He
can't predict it and that honestly makes him feel a little better
about having people die. No plans, like the clown said. It all just
goes with the flow. It's out of his control; therefore, out of his
hands.
(Rachel was right. He shouldn't leave things like this
to chance. Come to think of it, Batty said it too.
He guesses it
just didn't get through.)
Gordon is so lucky. He has a
family. A home. A life. A job.
How dare Gordon rip that all away
from him.
How do you fucking expect me to be the White Knight
after I've killed and exploited your best men, huh Gordon? his
mind fires, furious and raging like wildfire. Maybe this will take
the edge off. Firing a gun into an eight-year-old's skull.
The
little boy's blond hair ruffles lightly under his singed and
calloused hands, tingling what's left of his muscles and nerves.
It's an odd feeling; you never really realize what goes on in your
body until you see it when you wake up in the morning. He wonders if
the little boy can feel it on his scalp, the pulse and rush of his
blood coursing through his skeletal fingers, muscles torn and burned
so badly that the lightest friction breaks the tentative skin.
Teary
blue eyes bore holes of betrayal through his face, hurt and innocence
being contorted and blended on the little boy's cute features.
(He
shouldn't be doing this. The shreds of his conscience alerted him
to this days ago. Who'd of thought he'd fall in line with that
agent of chaos, his worst enemy? Face twisted by scars with tales so
blurred and retold the original story is but a faded memory, war
paint drawn on by shaky fingers, oh that sadistic masochistic
psychopath that was right about us. )
Gordon asks him to spare
the boy's life. Punish him, not the boy.
He tells him not to
worry. That was the plan anyway. (Well, you know what he means.)
The coin soars delicately through the air, slowly and catching
what little light there is in the place, this haloed and bloodstained
place, reeking of lost chances and burning gasoline. How ironic that
Gordon's family will die here, too. The clown is probably laughing
his ass off. He winces at the thought, his muscles searing in pain.
(That at this point, he probably deserves.)
It lands facedown on
his palm, rushing him back down to earth. Batman falls like in a
shooting gallery. Snap, quick.
It flips again, time slowing back
down. He aims the gun at his head, the good side (he must be bleeding
irony, he's shooting his goodness, if only the goddamned clown
could see him now). No regrets, no pauses, no fear. This could be his
only chance at escape.
Face up. His head is removed from the
cutting block; oh well. He flips the coin again-
He feels the
massive Kevlar body hitting him before he sees it, doesn't see it
at all, his hand pried from its grasp on mini-Gordon, fall, fall,
fall, Rachel, I Believe in Harvey Dent, she said yes, and he hears
her, calling his name, oh maybe he's lucky, suspended between life
and death, hit the ground, please, the damn clown was right-
Everything burns.
Fade to black.