When you're in a car that's somersaulting through the air, a few things go through your mind. You think of your family, and how they may feel knowing that you died in a horrible, twisted wreck. How they might act when they drag themselves into the morgue to identify your mangled corpse. You think about God, and whether or not He exists. You think about if you're going to go to Heaven. You think about your life, and suddenly you remember every detail, from birth to present, in a blinding flash.
As the black car flipped into chaos, Harvey Dent only thought about one thing: Sal Maroni's neck snapping. He wanted nothing more than to hear that glorious crack of the vertebrae as he was flung through the air in the metal projectile. He closed his good eye in anticipation, pistol clutched in hand. He could feel the quakes of Maroni's flailing body against the seat beside him as they rode on the carnival ride from hell. As the roof of the car crumpled below him, he was rewarded with that wonderful sound. The popping that signified the end of that bastard's life. Harvey's head flung forward and jutted back with the impact, then everything was black.
Everything was cold. Everything felt like it was shaking. It took a few minutes, but Harvey came to his senses. As his mind became alert, his body slowly made contact with his brain. His hair brushed against the torn fabric that lined the roof of the car. He hung limply in the grip of the seatbelt. His feet dangled only two feet from his face, his calf muscles straining. His heart was racing, trying to burst through his chest for fresh air. He groggily looked to his side. Maroni was in a jumbled pile on the ground. His head was bent at an unnatural angle, and his chest showed no sign that he was breathing. The soul survivor of the mess recalled voting in favor of seatbelt laws for Gotham City and felt a grand sense of poetic justice.
Harvey slowly drew in a breath before he considered his surroundings. His window had caved and shattered from the impact. An escape. He unbuckled himself from his life-saving restraint and carefully slid to the ground. Harvey pocketed his pistol and steadily crawled out from the heap of scrap on his stomach, brushing what shards of glass he could out of the way with the back of his hand. The ground was covered with sparse patches of grass and dry white dirt. With a short groan Harvey straightened himself up. His stomach, back, and neck ached. Upon his exit from the car, specks of the dirt had blown into his exposed eyeball, agitating it. Though annoying, the pain was nothing he couldn't handle.
With each step he took, he eyed his surroundings carefully. Attorneys had to be careful when traversing the dingier sides of the city, even if they were dead to the public. Harvey gathered that they had flipped into one of the halted construction areas near some warehouse that was most likely filled with any number of narcotics. It always amazed Harvey that no matter how hard he had combed those areas, no matter how many police raids there were or how many visits Batman made, the mafia still did their business out of the same damn buildings. It didn't matter though. He wouldn't be signing a warrant to search the building. The mob wasn't his problem anymore.
He crossed between the behemoth metal structures, his beat-up leather shoes kicking up pieces of gravel. The area was abandoned. Heavy machinery was left strewn through the area like artifacts of an ancient civilization. Either the Joker had taken the workers up as employees, or the job was put to an end by Maroni's men.
Harvey stepped over slabs of concrete as he wove around the site, thrown off by the unfamiliar structures. He stopped and leaned against a wide support beam; he had to catch his buzzing thoughts. He had to figure out what he had to do and how he could do it. He swiftly pulled out his lucky coin and sent it flipping through the air. He'd catch it, not paying any attention to the side it landed on, and flip it again. It was the greatest form of therapy he knew. He could allow himself a few moments to breath. Every cop and paramedic in Gotham was busy in an attempt to dampen the Joker's flames. He didn't have to worry about anyone bothering him.
Harvey could make out the sound of the gravel being gently kicked forward from behind the beam, . He caught the coin and grasped it firmly in his left hand. The sound continued to grow closer, and Harvey pulled his pistol from his coat pocket. He would give the sound another chance to stop before he flipped. The gravel continued to sputter around on the ground, and Harvey flipped the coin.
The good side shimmered up in his palm..
Whatever was making the sound at least had a chance to live if it cooperated. Harvey whipped around the side of the beam, pistol held at the ready.
"That's close enough-" Harvey's words were caught in his throat. He paused, tilting his head to the side.
Hobbling towards Harvey was a black dog that was no more than two and a half feet at the shoulders. Its fur was thinning and wiry, coated in dried mud and unnamable filth. A sign of age, its fur was a blend of grey and white around the muzzle. Its eyes were glazed over from cataracts with thin pools of yellow liquid running underneath them. It was obviously underfed, as its ribs were visible through a few areas where tufts of hair were missing. With every step it took, a spasm ran through its muscles. With its mouth hanging open, its breathing was unnecessarily heavy for the weather. Its paws caked in mud and kicking up gravel as they dragged along the ground, the dog continued to trod to Harvey. It was a good ten feet away, and though it was moving at quite the slow pace, the dog seemed to be going as quickly as it could. Once it realized Harvey was indeed a human, it seemed to carry itself a bit lighter. The dog stopped a yard away from Harvey. Half-collapsing, half-lowering itself, it rested on the ground. It looked around the area hesitantly before its glazed eyes gazed up to the blurry figure. Harvey gathered it couldn't make out any details of his face, hence why it hadn't run away in fear.
He stared back at the dog, his mind beginning to turn. The canine was absolutely pathetic. He knew it must have taken quite the beating at some point, and yet it kept going. It was determined to do whatever it had to before it died. The dog reminded him of the dying Gotham City, struggling to hold on for a few more years. The burning city that needed to have a bullet planted in its brain and be put out of its misery. For that, Harvey hated the dog.
Harvey held two deadly weapons in his hands: his pistol, and his coin. The pistol was absolute. Using it right away was almost like cheating. The coin, however, was fair. It gave everyone the same chance without discrimination.
The way he saw it, there were two possibilities for the mongrel. With the good side facing up, the dog would get the chance to quietly live out the last few hours of his life, able to rest easily on the dirt after its long journey. With the scratched side glaring into the sun, the dog would be put out of its misery quickly. He'd be sent to a place much kinder than anything Gotham had to offer it.
"Either way…you win," Harvey muttered to the canine before his thumb slid under his father's lucky coin.
The metal disk flipped through the air like Maroni's car had, not even ten minutes before. Though unlike the former crime lord, the dog had no idea that its livelihood was spiraling through the air.
Harvey caught the coin and flipped it onto the side of his right wrist.
The clean metal face gleamed in the sun. Harvey nodded and loosened his grip on the pistol. He cracked his neck and slid the gun back into his pocket. The coin remained in his hand, sliding between his fingers as he felt the surface. Before he turned to walk away, Harvey paused.
He flipped the coin once more.
The good side smugly smiled up at him, and Harvey slid the coin into his coat. His steps were calm and deliberate as he inched towards the dog. Though it was weakened, Harvey had the feeling that its teeth could still do a bit of damage if it felt threatened. He had just killed two men, and yet he didn't want to do anything that would even startle the dog.
"Easy boy," Harvey muttered as he gradually moved forward. His posture was crouched, his hand palm-down. He would seem like any other kind stranger approaching an old mutt, were it not for his tattered suit and half-missing face.
"I'm not gonna hurt you, boy."
The dog looked up towards the approaching figure and sniffed the air. It undoubtedly smelled burnt flesh and bits of blood. The mix of typically aggressive scents was enough to make the dog growl softly, but it did not make a hostile move as Harvey knelt down two feet from him. The attorney reached out warily, keeping his hand below the dog's head.
The old mongrel sniffed the air around Harvey's outstretched hand quickly before licking the tip of his finger. Harvey tilted his head and sat down beside the dog, running his fingers behind his ears and scratching gently.
"What the hell happened to you…" Harvey muttered as he glanced over the dog. There was a ring around the dog's scruff that showed a collar had once been there. It may have been removed or lost in his journey. It was a lingering shadow of what was the international sign of a pet. Judging by the signs of abuse, Harvey guessed the dog was thrown out intentionally. The mutt had to live out whatever life it had left on its own, not unlike the district attorney himself.
While Harvey flourished the dog with a kindness it had probably not known in quite some time, Harvey's other half was thinking. He was thinking and, as the Joker had put it so eloquently, scheming. He was thinking of Rachel, he was always thinking of Rachel. He had to do something, anything for her. He had to make things right and just in the whirlwind Gotham had become. Everything had unwound so quickly. A single snip, and every branch of power in the city was void. An hour passed, and all Harvey could see was Rachel's smile. All he could hear was her laugh. It was all just an echo.
A long sigh escaped the dog. Harvey glanced downwards. It didn't move as his fingers rubbed behind its ear. He knew the dog was finished, but he hadn't expected it to happen so soon.
He hadn't expected to lose Rachel so soon either.
Harvey looked out across the construction site and ran his palm down the dog's face. He slowly closed the canine's glazed eyes. Harvey rose and adjusted his suit. He walked slowly and deliberately, the dog quickly becoming a passing memory.
Harvey's mind wove threads together around a portrait of Rachel. He knew what he had to do for her. He knew how to make things right.