Perspective 2: Harvey Dent
Harvey Dent helplessly watched as Thorne, the very mob man he was sure he was going to bring down now that his role as district attorney had been confirmed, threatened to ruin his image and career. His medical files were innocently lying on his desk, the words printed upon them a real condemnation in polite society: anger issues, dissociative identity disorder, psychotherapy. If those words ever left those files or, even worse, were printed on anything resembling a newspaper, he was as good as finished. Thorne was smirking at him, avidly watching his eyes to catch the moment of defeat, the moment when Harvey, courteous, honest, impeccable Harvey had to sell his soul to the mob he'd sworn to destroy. The newly minted district attorney's knuckles turned white and fingers dug into his palms hard enough to draw blood. In the meantime, Thorne was still talking. "It is pretty easy, really. I am not going to ask you to do anything unsavoury, just to conveniently turn your head the other side when circumstances require it. You can still go after petty criminals and keep your "knight in shining armour" image. All in all, I think I am offering a saintly deal. The alternative is people finding out their admired hero is a nut job more fit for a psychiatric ward than a government office. I am sure neither of us wants that. So, do we have a deal?"
Anger consumed him. It burnt Harvey like a candle, melting away all his reserves, all his guilt, all his morals, until all was left was a burning core of scalding rage, because nothing about this was as it should be. He should not be required to hide this, he should not be torn apart and ruined by something he could not control, by something that never prevented him from doing the right thing, something that did not get in the way of him doing what was best for society, always; he should not have to take the fall for trying to fix that one weakness of his, instead of being a coward and deny it until it became too late. Was that the society he sacrificed his days and most of his nights, his free time, his energy, his very own mental health for? So ready to discard him without a second thought!
No.
A trapdoor opened, somewhere in his mind, and Harvey Dent fell through it, welcoming the respite offered by darkness. Two-Face opened his eyes and smirked grimly...
Back to reality, Two-Face opened his eyes and was met with the three white walls and the Plexiglas one that made up his cell in Arkham Asylum - his new home. He felt anger bubble up again and punched the wall, feeling even more frustrated when his hand bounced right back. He had been so close! He could have ended Thorne back in the factory, but that idiotic vigilante just had to make an appearance and mess everything up. Mess his face up. He stared at his reflection, a handsome face cut in half, man and monster, reason and instinct, light and darkness. Good and evil. He grinned. His former life was over, but that was no reason to despair: he had plenty of interesting plans for the new one.
The sound of feet was heard starting from the end of the hall, walking slowly down the corridor and finally stopping right before his cell. Two-Face, still sprawled on his cot, raised his head to meet the sorrowful eyes of Harvey's old friend, Bruce Wayne. He felt the part of himself that was still Dent lurch in shame at being seen in that condition, but he easily stomped on that and offered Wayne a death stare. "Have you come to gloat?", he barked roughly and the other man actually took a step back. "I would never", Bruce murmured in a low, sad tone and Two-Face slightly relaxed; even he knew that there were better targets upon which to vent his rage than Bruce Wayne. He jumped to his feet and approached the Plexiglas wall, peering at the young man on the other side of it. Apparently heartened by the gesture, the billionaire took a couple of step forward and addressed him: "I would like to speak with Harvey". The criminal felt himself smirk in pleasure at his words, delighted that someone finally deigned to recognise that he was no longer pitiful, goody-two-shoes Harvey.
"No chance of that, sorry", he murmured in the gruff voice that was starting to become his signature, "Dent no longer exists and trust me, it's for the best". Bruce winced as if physically hurt, but Two-Face mentally shrugged; the sooner the wimp understood the reality of things, the better it was for everyone involved.
"I cannot believe that", Wayne stated, voice wanting to appear confident but betraying a note of desperation in its slight trembling; the budding supervillain offered a simple smile, his damaged face becoming all the more monstrous when changing expression: "Suit yourself". He turned away, signalling he was finished with the conversation, and walked back to his cot, brain already hatching plans of just what he was going to do to Thorne and his lackeys once he was finally out of Arkham. He did not hear Bruce Wayne move and started to grow irritated at the fool-in-denial. He spun around and was in front of the glass again in a flat second, snarling at the man.
"Will. You. Leave. Already?"
Bruce stood rooted on the spot; his forehead glittered with perspiration, betraying just how nervous he really was, but his eyes held Two-Face's with quiet determination.
"I am not giving up on you", he informed him. "And I am not giving up on him".
The criminal growled at that, not wanting another annoyance on his tail. "You are a fool", he grated out. He was taken aback when Wayne smiled at him.
"Maybe", he conceded, "but I am a stubborn fool. See you soon, Harv… Two-Face".
He turned and slowly walked away, the bent shoulders betraying just how very taxing that conversation had been for him. Two-Face watched him go, a little mystified. He quietly chuckled to himself and went back to sit on his cot; annoying he may be, but at least he was an entertaining, annoying, stubborn fool.
Thank you for reading!
