The Gordon home was rough, dank, cold and at the bottom floor of what might as well have been a shanty complex. It wasn't an uncommon sight for this area of Gotham, being only a short distance away from the Narrows, and being a cop like Gordon didn't pay well. That might change with the new title, but Gordon wouldn't live long enough to get the full benefits.
Not if Harvey had a say.
Every street was dark and sirens—muffled by the layers of houses between them and Harvey—were as abundant as the flashing of red and blue lights. He didn't really know what he was expecting when he knocked on the paint-chipped door—or really what he was going to do—but Gordon and Batman were the last ones on his list. Harvey could die after that.
Rapping his knuckles against the door, Harvey kept the right side of his face toward the door. In any other state of mind, the anxiety that stayed with him before when meeting new people would make him jittery. Nervous. Trying too hard for the approval of others. He didn't have to worry about that anymore. No matter what he did, people would have the same reactions now. Terror or sympathy. Harvey wanted neither.
There was no anxiety now—no feeling except a dull nudge in the back of his mind. He shoved it away and didn't wait long before a new distraction appeared. Barbara Gordon, with her head of auburn hair, opened the door with a look of confused shock.
"Harvey Dent?" she asked, looking over his shoulder to see if Gordon was behind him.
Harvey turned, showing the full horror of his face. Barbara's mouth opened to let out a scream when he raised the gun and pointed it at her. He pushed the door open when she went to slam it, stepping in without really taking in the details around him. They didn't matter. Not in the end. What he was going to make Gordon feel—now, that's what mattered.
"Sorry about this," Harvey said, forcing his way further into the Gordon home, "usually I like to give some warning when I make house calls." He sounded blasé, but Harvey truly meant it. As much as he could mean anything then. His stomach twisted and what remained of his conscience and rational mind tugged at him.
This isn't what Rachel would have wanted.
But he thought Rachel was dead, and he couldn't bring her back.
Barbara raised her hands and looked at the good side of his face, trying to stay calm as the tears nearly spilled over.
"J-Jim isn't here. Please, my children—"
"If you try anything, you'll regret it," he warned, the burnt side giving him a permanent sneer where the skin twisted up and exposed his teeth. "Call him. I want Gordon here. Now."
A tremor shook his hand and nearly made him drop the revolver at the sight of her expression.
Did Rachel look like that when they dragged her out of the car? When she watched the clock tick down alone?
He forced himself to harden. Only justice mattered. The scales would balance just as they should. He was an agent of Chance, he had to remind himself. This was part of that. Just like the Joker enacted chaos, Harvey would bring the force to keep it all in check. Order and Chaos. Fate and Chance. Harvey inserted himself in the cosmic war of opposites and believed he could affect them.
It didn't occur to him how delusional those notions really were, how there were holes large enough for the truth to fall through and never be seen again.
But, at that moment, it didn't matter to Harvey. He'd lost the ability to distinguish between vengeance and justice and there would be no finding it. Before Harvey was never one for walking the middle ground, always bouncing between extremes, and he lost the will to find it. Chance decided what path to take for him and he just needed to carry out its will.
Simple. Fair.
And now Gordon needed to face what all the others had. What Harvey would at the end.
A small redheaded girl walked into the living room, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes and taking Harvey off guard. He raised the gun in her direction as a gut-reaction and lowered it immediately at the sight of a child so small.
Rachel wouldn't have wanted this, he thought again.
"Mom?" she asked, looking from her terrified mother to the monster standing in her house. The little girl screamed, and Barbara rushed to cover her mouth. He wanted to leave right then, pretend none of this happened.
But reality was never that simple.
"Shh, Eileen. Mommy needs you to be real quiet, OK?" Barbara looked from her daughter to Harvey, unsure as to how exactly this was going to go. She only knew it wouldn't end well.
When a blond boy came down the hall and froze, Harvey realized exactly what he walked into. What he signed up for. And there was no going back.
Three inches.
That's how far the Joker had to go before his fingers wrapped around the 9mm handgun behind him. Miriam was too busy to notice, her eyes glazing over from the lack of air and tears. She held the glass against his throat, the pressure in her grip alternating between firm and light and trembling.
Doesn't look like she wants to let go of me either.
A plum-leathered hand found its target.
Waiting until her grip went weak, the Joker pulled up the gun and pressed it against her sternum. It took a dozen rapid beats of her heart before she looked down and noticed the warm metal against the bare skin of her chest. Her brows rose in confusion, like she didn't quite understand, and her eyes met his.
"Do it."
The Joker pulled back the hammer.
"Do what you should've in the beginning."
Miriam released her grip on the glass altogether and the tears stopped. She was empty. Void. The Joker looked down at the bright, new chrysanthemum of red spreading across her shirt. The small hole left behind in the fabric.
He'd already managed to shoot her and didn't even realize. From the speed of the blood fleeing her tired body, she didn't have long. If the Joker didn't treat the gouge in his own side, he wouldn't either.
"I think you like me more than you, ah… let on." Antagonistic and biting until the end. The building gave another heave but neither moved. "You call me a coward, and yet. Here. We. Are."
The Joker's turn to laugh came, hard and scathing. Laughing at just how ridiculous this all turned out to be, at what all his planning came to. In any lesser man, regrets would have been running through their head if they were in the same position. But the Joker had only one: that Batman wasn't there with them to revel in the collective disappointment humanity showed themselves to be. He managed to tear the mask away for them, show just how ugly they were. He was the prophet of destruction and they fell at his feet looking for wisdom. The Joker gave the people of Gotham just enough ammunition to light the fire, and they willingly destroyed everything they thought hid them.
The Joker imagined a cataclysmic confrontation—something out of legend made real. Because that's what Batman was—a living, breathing, legend. It was the challenge his mask posed, the dare his cowl etched into the night, that first lured in the Joker in the beginning. Where would he have been without those first few glimmers of something so great?
But where was the Batman now?
Miriam took him away; robbed the Joker of the satisfaction of bringing Batman down just like he did Harvey. And the worst part was that she did it on purpose. She knew him—Batman. She must. Miriam added it to the list of things she'd deny him, and his anger and slavering rage became just as present as impotent. What could he do now?
What he'd always done.
Drive in the knife a little further, even if the target wasn't who it was intended for.
The Joker was never one to let someone have the upper hand for long. That's how his brain worked. He could always find a way to twist the situation around. A new punchline—a verse from this divine comedy called 'life'.
"I knew you didn't have it in ya, Miri." His lung hurt and his chest tight with the effort of breathing, but the Joker still smirked. Miriam had no weapon now, the glass discarded on the floor, her eyes blank. "Too little, too late, sweetheart. Where was all this… before? A bit useless now, ain't it?"
Miriam said nothing, but something sparked in her eye. A small sign of life as her chest convulsed. The Joker reached up and touched the bleeding wound on her side, smiling.
"Y'know, I always imagined this happening differently. It was more… intimate." He pressed his finger against the small opening that produced so much blood. Miriam didn't even flinch. "There were knives involved. That's how I wanted to do it; watch you bleed out."
An infinitesimal reaction. A twitch of the eye. Tensing of her muscles.
It's working.
"You do bleed so—so nicely." He giggled. The Joker was going to watch her bleed out, he just didn't get the satisfaction of feeling the knife go into that soft skin he'd grown so fond of. "I know, I know. No time for that now, is there? That's OK, we're making do, aren't we?"
Something snapped in Miriam. The Joker could see it happen as if the air around them thickened into half-formed ice. A metal pipe, dislodged from the ceiling, sat close by. Wrapping her fingers around it, Miriam brought it down on his chest, winding him. He was laughing just as hard as she was screaming as she slammed it against his head.
Always has more fight in her than she lets on.
The Joker would miss this, too, when all was said and done.
Miriam didn't give him time to dwell. She smacked away the gun in his hand, making it hit the floor and misfire. The shot rang loud and the Joker caught the pipe, gripping it hard and keeping her from knocking his brains out all over the floor.
Looks like Miriam's found it after all—murderous intent.
Abandoning the pipe, Miriam reached for the gun, crying out when the pain finally reached through to tell her exactly what her limits were. The Joker got the gun first, knocking her off him and bringing it around. She tried to fight him for it, the metal biting into their hands and catching their skin but, even with a collapsing lung filling with blood, he was stronger than her.
He backhanded Miriam. Hard. When she fell to the ground, yelping as she landed on her side, the Joker was back on her again, pressing the gun to her head. She struggled but couldn't say anything, her throat already sporting new purple bruises that matched the colour of his gloves, but defiance was there. He thought he killed it, but he realized he might not be able to. It would hide and always come back again. He could appreciate that, even as the vengeful part of him wanted to wipe that expression from the face of the planet. He panted hard, but he made himself chuckle.
No point in living if you can't have a good laugh at yourself.
At one time in his life, it felt like the entire universe used him for the butt of some cosmic joke. The funny thing was that it couldn't do that if you laughed at them first. So, that's what he did. He'd keep laughing.
"I really wish we could've done this another way, sweetheart," he murmured. The rage in him made the Joker feel beastly. "I imagined so many… outcomes for this, but, ah… you make your bed, you gotta lie in it."
He cocked the gun, finger on the trigger. The Joker imagined pulling it, looking at Miriam as a crown of crimson swallowed her head and the light left her eyes—imaging what she must be thinking, how the last thing she'd ever see was him smiling at her and nothing else. This is what he wanted, what he always wanted when he killed someone. For the remnants of their lives to be dedicated to the gifts of pain he gave them. He liked the way Miriam looked back at the Mayor's house—exquisite pain forming under his practiced hand.
His mind was alive with the visions, but no action followed. She didn't look like that anymore, and it undercut every sense of satisfaction out of the task. He seemed incapable of doing it—some part of him hesitated.
Do it like you've done it to so many others.
But Miriam was just staring at him. He couldn't even see hate. Only a sense of understanding.
Her eyes, still so big and open, left his as she reached to take the dangling gold ring hanging from the Joker's neck delicately in her fingers. A pained smile, one tainted by the curse of memory, showed that she wasn't in the room with him anymore. Not really.
If pressed, the Joker wouldn't really be able to say why he still had her mother's ring. Yes, it was a way to torment her, a soft spot to poke at, but it became something else when he read the engraving. He kept it and tried to forget about it—but he was confronted with the tie it created between them. The memory of when he broke into her room and raided it like a lost treasure site, the desire to see if the engraving was an adage she lived up to, hit him harder in his exhaustion.
"I deserve it, right?" she whispered,
The Joker jolted back, the gun coming with him and the barrel leaving her skin. He made her say that very phrase less than twenty-four hours before, and now it was Miriam throwing it back at him. The funny thing about it was that she didn't deserve it—not really.
And yet here we are.
"Just kill me."
Never been one to deny a dying last wish, were you?
He pulled on everything that had made him so deadly and brutal everywhere else. It felt harder now, but he was going to do it. He'd make himself do it.
"Was never good at goodbyes, so I'll, uh, see you in the next life." More debris fell around them and neither flinched. Something solid smacked into a wall. "Nice knowing ya, sweet—"
Before the Joker could finish his final farewell, a black mass tackled him to the ground and held him down by the shoulders. He recognized this feeling—had felt it before. Back at the arcade. When his head was cracked against the glass and ended with those second-degree burns.
His Batman came back to finish the job after all.
Miriam's cackling sobs of madness resumed as the Joker's smile grew wide.
There were many things Barbara Gordon worried about.
Before she had James Jr. and Eileen, it was Jim when he'd go out on patrol in the early days. Back when the good cops—those who didn't take bribes and held their partners accountable—were sent out on patrols by themselves in the Narrows or the East Side of Gotham. Most times you didn't even need to go into a rough neighbourhood, officers who went against the grain could expect to get shot in the back by the officers meant to watch them. Those days left her wracked with anxiety—tossing and turning and sleepless every night he was gone and checking her phone every twenty minutes at work, just in case she missed a call when he needed her.
Everything changed when they had their kids. Barbara wanted Jim to quit the force. How could she raise her children alone if he died? Gotham wouldn't get any better. A downslide lasting thirty years was proof enough. She tried to convince him, but Jim stayed adamant. She could respect his dedication, the drive to make Gotham better. Barbara even admired Jim for it.
That stopped a year ago.
Batman did what an entire generation failed to do. Taking on those no one else could, making the criminals run scared and those in Gotham who hid in fear before feel safe. He gave the city hope, and that was a rare thing.
But Batman also made things worse.
Small time gangs either disbanded or doubled down in their operations and held onto their territory with vicious entitlement. They grew sophisticated in their terror and wild with their sense of retribution. Crime might have been down when it came to the statistics, but those few who remained were worse than all who came before. Barbara had felt it for years—how close the city was to the edge—and now that manifestation of what Jim called an 'irrational fear' became reality. Maybe it was because she was from Chicago and Gotham wasn't her original home—she could see the fractures where Jim wouldn't. He explained it to her once, before their son was born.
'If I lose all faith in the system now, then everything's meaningless. All this can't be for nothing, Barbara.'
She knew it was true. Jim dedicated his life to protecting people and he couldn't do that if he truly saw what a hopeless endeavour it really was. Barbara didn't want to take that away from him, but she began to doubt. What would their lives have looked like if it wasn't in Gotham?
The Joker's appearance in Gotham was the embodiment of the sickness Barbara saw festering for the eight years she'd lived there, and she told Jim they needed to leave. She let Jim reassure her, keep back the feeling in her stomach that told her to find some quiet town far away from the pollution that was Gotham, so she didn't have to worry about her kids at school every day, her husband getting shot for trying to do what was right, or even walking down the street and constantly being afraid. Always afraid.
But Jim didn't listen to Barbara, and now she could see all too clearly the map of consequences she should have saw coming. She was left to think Jim was dead for an entire week. She had to tell her children they would grow up without a father, had to grieve Jim and dread living her life alone all because her husband died for valour. Barbara was left to mourn and then accept when he came walking through the door like what he did was nothing short of heroic rather than traumatizing. Like she could forgive him for that because it was all done in the name of The Greater Good.
Where did that take Barbara?
People were tearing each other apart in the streets, the Joker was killing people by the dozen and aiming for more, her husband was in the thick of it all and likely to never come back—for good this time—and a man was in her home, waving around a revolver.
And that man was Harvey goddamn Dent.
The man she put so much faith in. She wasn't alone in that, at least—the entire city had. He was going to clean up the city for good, give the legal system the teeth to fight back against organized crime. And there he stood, in her living room, face half-blown off, ready to kill her and her children.
Being married to Jim might have given Barbara an entire host of anxieties, but it also gave her tough skin in the face of extreme stress.
"What do you want, Harvey?" she asked, trying to keep her voice calm as she held her children close. Harvey was agitated and clearly in pain—that would make him volatile. He growled impatiently.
"I want you to call Gordon. Now."
Barbara's hands shook. Calling her husband home likely meant he would die. Not calling him would mean her children stayed in danger. Either choice was heart-shattering. They could all die either way, but she couldn't willingly risk her children's lives. Holding James and Eileen tight to her body, Barbara struggled to keep her gaze locked on Harvey's remaining eye.
"I—I don't know if he'll answer. He's in the middle of the riots."
No discernible emotion passed over Harvey's face. He was just a walking embodiment of wrath. Raising the gun and pulling back the hammer, Harvey pointed it at her head. Barbara was glad her shaking knees still held her upright.
"Then we'll keep trying."
Barbara had no choice. The tears hadn't started, and she willed them not to. Nodding her head, she slowly reached into the back pocket of her jeans and pulled out her cellphone. Motioning to the couch with the barrel of his gun, Barbara shushed her children as they called to her, wondering what was happening.
Sitting like they were about to watch a family movie, Harvey stood over the remaining Gordon's as the touchscreen lit up and she selected Jim's contact icon. It was set to a photo of Barbara and Jim from the last time they managed to get away for a vacation before Eileen was born six years ago. They looked so much younger, happier even with all the uncertainty Gotham kept at a constant frequency. Fingers shaking and lips trembling with pent up fear, Barbara pressed the phone to her ear and closed her eyes as she listened to the line dial. Jim answered on the third ring.
"Barb? Listen, I can't talk right now—"
"Honey, I need you to come home," Barbara said, squeezing her eyes shut as she pressed Eileen to her chest.
"Wait, why? Is something wrong? What—"
She couldn't take it anymore and started crying. What kind of person was she, calling her husband to his own execution? Barbara slapped a hand over her mouth as a sob ripped out and Harvey snatched the phone from her, pressing it against his ear and breathing hard.
"Hello, Jim."
Batman landed hard as he tackled the Joker to the ground. He saw the gun in the Joker's hand pointed at Miriam, the mess of blood and debris, and acted on instinct. Wiry muscle and sharp bone collided with Batman's bulk and a blunt fist connected with the Joker's jaw. He seemed temporarily dazed enough for Batman to take in his surroundings. The newest wing of Wayne Enterprises suffered extensive structural damage. With each passing minute the danger of the ceiling collapsing on top of them increased, and Batman could hear the structure groaning and the smell of smoke billowing out from above. He needed to move. But the laughing behind him—not from the psychotic clown on the ground—shook Batman awake from the dream of vengeance and retribution at the sight of the bloodied face of the Joker.
Miriam was on her back, eyes open and staring, and howling with an inappropriate amount of mirth.
Why is she laughing?
Batman didn't have time to linger on that question. The rapidly expanding pool of blood underneath her made him abandon the Joker. He was next to Miriam immediately, pressing his gloved hands against the gunshot wound that seemed to have gone right through the left side of her abdomen.
"Talk to me," he demanded. Anything other than this strange laughter he'd never heard from her before. Miriam said nothing; didn't even seem capable of seeing him. She only stared ahead at the crumbling ceiling as the cackling turned into a pained sob. "Miriam—"
Batman didn't register the click until it was too late. The Joker, now on his feet, kicked Batman in the ribs. Batman's armour would have absorbed most of the impact, but it didn't account for there being a blade protruding from the toe of the Joker's shoe. Or the knife sliding into his ribs and nearly piercing his diaphragm.
"I'm so glad you came! I'm touched, really—"
The Joker drew back his foot for another swing. Ignoring the pain and dodging to the side, Batman tensed, ready to leap when something hard hit the side of his head. Grunting in pain and gritting his teeth, he raised an arm to protect his head as the Joker rained down blows with something solid and metal, roaring with the rabid excitement of a wild dog.
"But it, ah, doesn't seem like you came to visit me," the Joker forced out between the bursts of air as he hit and kicked, lashed out and struck at Batman. Even when he was in the middle of laying down a beating, the Joker didn't know when to shut up.
Batman took a hard blow to the jaw before he was able to catch the pipe, sweeping out a leg and dropping the Joker back to the ground. He launched himself forward to wrench away the thick pipe that the Joker wielded. The Joker, Batman realized, was bleeding too, but his grip on the pipe was firm and unyielding. They grappled; the Joker filled with a renewed burst of energy that exploded out of him as Batman's waned, depleted from the draining task of taking down the drones.
"I'm hurt, Batsy. What, I'm not your type?" the Joker giggled, exuding mock-offense. Batman punched him hard in the teeth.
In their struggle, the Joker managed to straddle Batman, forcing his weight into a leveraged position to keep Batman down. And, once again, Batman failed to register the sounds around him as he struggled to subdue the Joker, and he barely managed to catch the Joker's hand as he abandoned the pipe and tried driving a long switchblade into Batman's throat.
"Oh, all the familiar places," the Joker sang as he pushed all his weight on the hand holding the knife. Batman fought against the pressure, groaning as he twisted into a position to throw the Joker off. "Did you like the show outside? I thought it was something special—just for you!"
The Joker cackled and pressed harder, bringing up a knee to agitate the knife wound. Batman's concentration slipped as movement caught his eye. Miriam was standing up, and she wasn't laughing anymore. She held the metal pipe and raised it above her head. Miriam wasn't herself—not as Bruce Wayne ever knew her. She looked murderous.
And ready to crush the Joker's head in.
Of all the things that could go wrong, Gordon never suspected this.
"Harvey, what have you done?" Gordon asked, forcing himself to stay calm. That was the last thing he wanted to be, but he treated the truth unfolding in front of him like it was a situation at work and not his own family. "Where is Barbara? My children?"
Smack in the middle of suppressing riots was not the place to have this conversation, in front of his eavesdropping men as they worked to pen in the rioters. It was working—moving in and closing off the streets to act as a net, they cordoned off the streets and cinched in tighter, block by block. They'd learned from the disaster in the Narrows the year before, and the benefit of the National Guard was something they couldn't have managed without. Those who were afraid were quick to go home at the first signs that their police weren't as dire straits as Garcia had made it out to be. Many of the officers were eager to avenge their fallen, and they worked hard overthrow what the Joker attempted to establish.
The ones looking to take advantage of the chaos—thinking they lived in a newfound Wild West—were close to being corralled into the waiting police wagons until they could sort out who exactly committed what. The fresh onslaught of violent content online would be a useful tool in that.
When the drones were shot out of the sky and blasted into the Gotham River, Gordon cheered on with the rest of the officers on the ground. He didn't know how Batman did it, but Gordon felt like he'd done something right. It was a feeling that was so easily undermined.
"Where you abandoned them," Harvey answered.
The National Guard commander, Major Lewinsky, stood back in the distance. He looked at Gordon with concern as he saw the Commissioner's face turn ashen.
"I didn't abandon them—"
"Come alone. No cops—or you won't have a family to come home to."
"Harvey, wait—"
The line went dead. Gordon held his cellphone, sweating as reality set in.
A furious Harvey Dent was with his family.
He was likely armed.
There was only one way into his house, and Harvey had all the leverage.
"Everything OK, sir?" one of Gordon's patrolmen, Carlos Amaro, asked, peering at Gordon's face.
Gordon didn't have a choice, but how would he explain this without them following?
"There's… there's a situation," Gordon said, his eyes darting around as the flashing sirens blinded him in the dark and Special Forces walked in line with the National Guard, all holding their issued M16's aloft. "I need to take care of it. Send a small detachment to the 800 block of Elgin Street. No one moves without my say so." Gordon took on a voice he wasn't familiar with—the voice of a commander. He needed them to listen. He'd be dooming his family otherwise.
"Sir, can't we—"
"This is covert," Gordon interrupted. They couldn't ask questions he didn't have answers for. "Part of this mess. That's all you need to know."
The patrolman looked affronted, but Gordon didn't care. He was sending a squad to wait a block away from his home. If it came down to it, when they heard the shots, his family would have the benefit of immediate medical attention.
Shouldering past everyone in his way, Gordon ran through the mass of roving crowds that were either looking for help, a lost friend or family member, or were zip-tied and bloody on the sidewalk as they waited to be transported to any available processing unit. Gordon didn't care about any of them anymore. He made a promise to Batman, and a vow to Gotham, but his family's safety was more immediate. He and Major Lewinsky did their work, and it could be finished without him.
It took too long to find his car—too long to speed through the line of cars that were jammed together in a long line of sticky molasses. He took to the sidewalk, fighting through the streets like it was a raging river rather than a mass of pavement.
Gotham in the late fall was usually one collective rain trap, with showers happening extensively for long periods. No one enjoyed them because of the smell they brought up from Ace Chemicals, and because it only served to drown the streets and flood storm drains rather than feed the small number of green spaces. Gordon didn't often wish for rain, but he wanted it now. It'd help clear the people out of the way.
Twenty-two minutes is what it took Gordon to get to his house. The sounds of the riots had moved down and away from his neighbourhood, but he could still hear the sirens and shouting over two kilometers away. The other units would be in position soon, and Gordon stopped thinking about them as soon as he took the first step of his porch. His vision darkened. Nothing else mattered except seeing his family, making sure they were alright.
"Barbara?" Gordon called as he burst through the front door, gun drawn. He saw them sitting on their couch, his wife's arms around their children. The pressure in his chest tightened and he rushed forward. In his relief, he neglected to check the corners. A hard crack on the back of his head with the butt of Harvey's revolver was reminder enough.
Gordon fell to the floor, cradling his head, and Harvey stood between him and his family, kicking the gun out of his hand and across the floor.
"You can't even protect your own family," Harvey said, his chin tilted up as he looked down at Gordon with searing hatred. "Maybe I shouldn't be surprised you couldn't protect mine."
Gordon raised his hand, a motion of vulnerability begging for mercy. He panted hard, the air leaving him as the panic closed his throat at the sounds of his family crying.
"Harvey, I'm sorry about what happened. I tried to help her—"
"But you didn't, did you?"
Harvey stepped away from Gordon, eyeing up the family photos on the water-damaged walls. Even in near squalor, Gordon had more than Harvey ever would. His chance at happiness evaporated in the span of a day, and there would be no reclamation.
"I tried, but we—"
Harvey turned back to Gordon, showing him the full damage his willing ignorance inflicted. What the price Harvey paid turned out to be.
"Yes, you could. If you'd just listened to me—if you'd stood up against corruption instead of doing your deal with the devil."
"I was trying to fight the Mob—!"
Harvey stepped toward Gordon, still laying on the ground, and shook the gun in his face, spitting in his rage.
"You wouldn't dare try to justify yourself if you knew what I'd lost," Harvey whispered, his fury barely restrained.
All this because of what happened to his face? Didn't the doctors talk to him? Gordon thought. It didn't make sense. Why was Harvey so angry?
"Have you ever had to talk to the person you love most, wondering if you're about to listen to them die?" Harvey asked, the restraint breaking with emotion. "You ever had to lie to that person? Tell them it's going to be alright, when you know it's not?" he asked, a small tear rolling out of his remaining eye. Gordon's stomach flipped.
"Harvey, please help me understand. I don't... who died?" A sick feeling of comprehension slammed Gordon further into the floor. He looked to Barbara, her eyes trained on the gun and where it was pointed, and his terrified children staring at him in fear. Harvey wanted vengeance, he realized. But vengeance for what?
"Don't you DARE pretend you don't know," Harvey roared, pressing the gun to Gordon's head, baring his teeth and filling the room with suffocating fire. Gordon raised his hands higher, seeing a path that might save his family. "You're going to feel what I felt. What I've suffered. Then you'll be able to look me in the eye and tell me you're sorry."
Harvey, clearly unbalanced, was wracked with grief—that's what underpinned the rage. Sitting up straighter, Gordon spoke calmly and made his breathing slow.
"Who have you been talking to, Harvey? Rachel is alive."
Harvey barely registered the claims. He pointed the gun at Barbara's temple and his fear spiked to an unholy spasm that seized his heart.
"Harvey, put the gun down. You don't want to hurt my family." Harvey stared him down and glowered. Gordon kept inching up, moving at a glacier pace to the gun behind him. "Rachel isn't dead, Harvey. You're hurting the wrong people. She's hurt, but she—"
"STOP LYING!" Harvey screamed, his face coming alive with burning denial. "She's dead, I saw the medical report—"
"Who showed you, Harvey?" Gordon asked and Harvey froze. Conflict transformed the part of his face that remained whole. "Rachel is in Trenton, in a special burn unit. She... I failed her, I know that, but she isn't dead." Gordon's voice grew thick at the thought of what she looked like now. Her bubbling skin, the leagues of red that claimed the once fair skin, the exposed muscle on her hand. Gordon had done more than fail her, they both knew that.
"You're lying." All the certainty Harvey had—everything he'd done in her name—amounted to nothing.
Just like everything else you've done, Harvey thought.
Harvey pulled out his coin, the object that gave him direction. He needed it more than ever.
"It's not about what I want, it's about what's fair!" he screamed, waving the gun. "You and Batman. Our team of three. You—you all thought we could be decent men in an indecent time. You thought we could lead by example. You thought the rules could be bent and not break."
Harvey's voice escalated to a pitch of despair. The tears were coming down hard and he didn't try to stop them. Confusion made everything that was so clear before as muddy as the blood that would coat his soul forever.
"You were wrong," he said to Gordon as much as himself. Gordon tried again; the chances of getting through to Harvey were dwindling.
"Someone lied to you, and I'm sorry. But—you need to put the gun down, Harvey. You don't need to do this. Rachel's going to wake up and she's going to need you." Gordon didn't know that for certain, but he needed to appeal to Harvey—make him realize the truth of what he was doing.
Harvey's mind reverberated with body-wracking turmoil. What did he actually remember? Why did he believe the Joker; why was he so convincing? What did he actually see when he saw that medical chart?
Nothing.
Harvey realized he could be certain of nothing.
He didn't see Rachel's body. No one admitted her death to him except for the Joker, and he was a practiced liar. The rational part of his mind knew this.
Then what was all this for?
He'd murdered so many people. Harvey made himself a killer. He stood in the Gordon home, ready to massacre an entire family, and for what?
Nothing.
A scream of pain and suffering erupted out of Harvey. He pulled at the remaining hair on his head, pressed the hard metal into the angry, burned skin and roared.
Where were Fate and Chance now? Why did they abandon him?
Horror and tears blinded Harvey to Gordon moving back and grabbing his gun. Harvey didn't care anymore. Gordon, Batman, and the Joker might have destroyed his life and his face, but he did all the rest. He shoved the pistol against his chin and went to pull the trigger, bypassing his new process of having his coin make the choice, but Gordon was faster. Taking aim for the bicep and shoulder of the arm holding the gun, Gordon fired twice in quick succession.
Harvey hit the floor hard, and Gordon was in front of his family in an instant. Screaming and a flurry of movement filled the small space, and the arms of his children wrapped around him and took Gordon's attention away from Harvey. He wouldn't be able to use his arm, and that's all that mattered.
In the time it took to untangle himself from his family and make sure Harvey was alive and incapacitated, the space Harvey had fallen to was empty. A large trail of blood led to the kitchen and their backdoor swung open and slammed into the wall. Harvey would have to scale the fence and run down the connection of alleys to get away. Weary exhaustion gripped Gordon as he held his family. Pulling the radio from his jacket pocket, he pressed down on the receiver.
"All units converge on 746 Elgin Street. Create a perimeter—we need to begin a manhunt, put out an APB."
"10-4, Commissioner. Who's the POI?"
Gordon closed his eyes and willed the feeling of his family, whole and alive, to be enough. He sighed and marvelled with a sickened sense of awe the devastation that upended an entire city in such a short period of time.
"Harvey Dent."
Batman pushed the Joker off just as Miriam brought down the pipe, catching it in his hand just before it caved in the clown's head.
"Miriam, stop—"
But Miriam was beyond hearing him. She struggled to rip the pipe away to take another swing. When Batman jumped to his feet, he pulled out the long switchblade that the Joker managed to dig into the muscles above his collarbone. Growling, he tore the pipe away as another sharp kick—with the same shoe with the knife in its toe—found a home in Batman's abdomen.
You need to end this. Quickly.
Smoke filled the room, choking him. Wood and plaster crackling made him look up as he trapped a screaming Miriam in the vise of his arms. Fire engulfed the ceiling. Rolling thunder in the form of massive structural failures made the building heave.
The pain didn't matter. Batman needed to take the Joker down and get Miriam out. That was his goal and it's all that mattered.
"Looks like I won't miss the fireworks after all," the Joker giggled. Batman wasn't the only one staring at the death coming for them if they didn't get out first.
His attention was dragged away again when Miriam stopped struggling. She was staring at her hand, and it was covered in blood. Her blood.
"Bruce?" she mouthed. No sound came out, and her brows came together in confusion.
Batman shook when she went limp, but the Joker gave him no time to help. He was more determined than ever that they get the fiery send-off he always wanted. A hard thwack to the head made his knees buckle.
"How did you like all my handiwork, hmm? I put so much time and effort in, I was worried it wouldn't turn out just right—"
The Joker savagely kicked Batman in the bleeding ribs. Batman, weak and struggling to breathe from the billowing smoke, was on his back again with the pipe on his throat, the Joker pressing down hard as he laughed maniacally and licked his lips.
"See what my problem was? Ya can't rely on anyone these days, and I relied on people a little too much. Look at where that got me!" The grin never left as the mania heightened what the Joker's excitement brought. "Little Miriam, there, was so helpful, wasn't she? Bet you just loved what our gal pal cooked up. Needed to keep a tighter leash apparent-ly. But, y'know what they say... 'live and learn."
He cackled at his own joke and pushed down until he nearly crushed Batman's throat. The Joker leaned in close, greasepaint tainted sweat dripping onto Batman's cheek.
"And I learned that you've gotta do everything yourself," he sang. Batman struggled to breathe and the Joker laughed, smiling at some remembered moment. "I always have, Bats—and it ain't easy... speaking of which, you wanna know how I got these scars?"
The Joker's smile froze as the hammer of a gun pulled back. Miriam, her eyes ringed black and cheeks ashen and hollow, smiling painfully as she started laughing again, held the Joker's gun tightly. Her hands didn't shake, and no hesitation was present on her face—only unhinged, ethereal laughter coming from her bleeding chest. She wanted the Joker to die, and she wanted to be the one to do it.
Batman summoned his last reserves of strength, the deepest pits in himself that he hadn't tapped into since he was a boy and the weight of his parents' death nearly suffocated him, back when every day of his life was a struggle for survival when he was gone. The heat of the fire, a pertinent reminder of the fire that destroyed Wayne Manor, licked closer to them. Soon, there wouldn't be a path to leave.
"Miriam, put down the gun," he wheezed, struggling to maintain the pitch that disguised his voice. The Joker twisted to smile at Miriam, egging her on.
"Oh, still lookin' to cause some trouble, hmm?" he taunted. The shaking came back with violent force in Miriam's arms. Tears streaked down her dirty cheeks, now stained with ash. The Joker looked back to Batman, giving him a knowing smirk. "See? It's contagious in this town. Everyone's just looking to tear each other apart!"
The Joker burst into hysterical peals of laughter. He thought he won. He knew the eagerness that the citizens of Gotham embraced when it came to inflicting harm on others. Sweet Miriam was welcoming it just like all the others. She tried so hard not to hurt anyone that she inflicted harm all by accident. Now she was willing to inflict it with purpose. The Joker might have not been able to turn Batman, but the Joker got those closest to him. It wouldn't take much at all for Batman to lose everything else. Madness would follow after, and the Joker could bask in the aftermath.
"Miriam, you don't want this," Batman said, his mind going fuzzy as he fought for air. The Joker responded by putting all his weight on the pipe and the knife wounds on Batman's chest. "Don't be like him."
Miriam's eyes snapped to Batman's and he could see the extent of her suffering. The Joker didn't try to stop her from aiming at him. He was caught in a moment of poetry; an epic tragedy that was fitting for the legend he wanted to leave behind. It involved pain, and that was what mattered to him. She stared into Batman's eyes as beams coated in flame dropped around them, and she slowly lowered the gun.
"Oh, come on, sweet peach—get off your high horse and grow a spine—"
As soon as the pressure lessened, Batman pushed up, smacking the pipe into the Joker's head and dazing him. Batman's fist landed against the Joker's jaw again and again as the same rage he felt in the interrogation room at the MCU, when he was searching for Miriam and beat Jahan Shaddid and Maroni to a pulp, in the arcade at Amusement Mile and stared at exactly what evil he allowed the Joker to inflict on Miriam, as he struggled and strived to do what was right left only ruin behind ripped through him. He wanted to beat the Joker to death. Bruce Wayne, peeking up past the defenses Batman put in place, wanted the Joker's blood to cover his fists more than anything.
But Batman held himself back. He trembled with the violence of his anger, but he wouldn't unleash it. That's not what justice was. He wouldn't let Miriam sink to the Joker's level, and he couldn't either. The Joker stared up at him, the blood and greasepaint mixing to coat the entirety of his lower mouth in red.
"Just can't let me go, can you?" Smug certainty slicked his voice, practically dripping from it. Batman wanted to resume his beating, but he gritted his teeth and held back. He wouldn't kill for R'as, and he wouldn't kill for the Joker either. "I guess this is what happens when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object. You truly are incorruptible, aren't you?"
The Joker got it wrong. Bruce Wayne was corruptible, just like everyone else. It was because he was corruptible that he had to fight harder. He couldn't make change if he didn't learn from history, and that's what Batman allowed him to do. Detach from the mistakes of his past. He couldn't fall prey to them now or he'd be doomed to repeat it. And what would happen to Gotham then?
"You won't kill me out of some misplaced sense of self-righteousness..." The Joker grew serious, but the smile of familiarity never left. "And I won't kill you because you're just too much fun. I think you and I are, ah... destined to do this forever."
Batman closed his eyes and a breath of pained weariness almost made him fall to the ground. The smoke grew thick and black. They were almost out of time. Flipping the Joker onto his stomach, he pulled his arms behind his back and secured them with zip ties.
"You're going to be in a padded cell, forever," Batman answered, moving to the Joker's legs and tying those together and securing a cord around them. He wouldn't carry the Joker out, but he had no qualms about dragging him.
"Maybe we can share one." More cackles. But the tone was different. The Joker was in on a joke Batman didn't know. He flipped the defeated clown over and was greeted with a look of twinkling mischief. As if what the Joker was about to say was entirely benign. "They'll need to double-up with the rate of the city's inhabitants are losing their minds..."
Oh no.
"You tried your little game and failed. What were you trying to prove? That all of humanity was as willing to be as ugly as you?" Batman demanded, grabbing the Joker by the lapels of his jacket and shaking him. The Joker's tongue snaked out and lapped up the blood oozing from his split bottom lip.
"Yeah, not everyone joined the party, but we'll see what happens when they find out what I did with the best of them. When they get a good look at the real Harvey Dent, and all the 'heroic' things he's done." The smile disappeared and the Joker leaned forward, eyes rolling up and landing back in place, trying to press his nose against Batman's. He was caught by the horror of the Joker's revelations. At this new circle of hell unveiled before him. "All those criminals Harvey worked so hard to lock up, all those nights of beating petty criminals to a pulp—sacrificing your, ah, personal life... it'll be for nothing. Gotham's gonna get a real look at the true nature of heroism."
Batman's eyes went wide. He didn't think there was any other way he could fail. Once again, the Joker proved him wrong.
"You didn't think I'd make things so simple for you, did ya, Batsy? When Gotham's soul was on the line?" The Joker laughed, but it was mirthless and he didn't smile. "You've gotta have an ace in the hole. Mine's Harvey."
"What did you do?"
Miriam and the encroaching fire were forgotten. Only the Joker remained. And he smiled, revealing the secret to his last card trick.
"I took Gotham's White Knight, and I brought him down to my level," he confessed with glee. "It wasn't hard. Y'see, madness—and I explained this to Miri—is like gravity. All it takes is a little push!"
The Joker's laughter belted out, loud and unending. Batman didn't have the luxury of killing the Joker now or stewing in the full breadth of his failure. He took the cable attached to the Joker's feet and hauled up a now unconscious Miriam and dragged them out of the burning room, fighting through the collapsing hallways and oxygen deprivation.
He would never admit it out loud, but the Joker won. He won and there would be no going back for Gotham. He and Gordon might have saved her from being torn apart, but a new era would be ushered in. One unprecedented in its history. The battle for Gotham was only beginning.
The Joker made sure of that. And Miriam helped make it happen.
AN: Hey everyone! Holy smokes this one took me longer than anticipated to get out. Part of it was the small vacation I took, and the other part is that I'm just really nervous about this chapter. I've been building to this for 37 chapters. 37! Over 250k words and almost a year, and I really, really hope that it's everything you could have hoped for and more. Anxiety has not been my friend in writing this, but I sincerely wish this story has been one you've enjoyed. Thank you to everyone who stuck around from the beginning and those who joined along the way. Your support made this crazy endeavour worthwhile - so I owe you all everything from the bottom of my heart.
There are several marked differences from the canon TDK. Harvey Dent is still alive - I thought his potential as a villain was short-lived in the series (for understandable reasons) and since this is canon divergent, I have the opportunity to give his character more exploration that was limited in the film. Rachel is also still alive. This isn't a knock against Christopher Nolan (he's still a filmmaking god to me, and he isn't the only one guilty of this), but her dying in the film felt solely necessary for Bruce to have a reason to go into an eight-year stretch of solitude and Harvey to lose his mind about rather than her existing as a character in her own right. Her being alive, and severely scarred and injured, complicates this. So I've changed this to give myself a new avenue to pursue in the sequel (which is totally different from the TDKR). What that looks like shall remain unknown for now!
Perhaps the biggest change is the ending message of the Joker's reign of terror. There is no sense of hope right now, unlike the false one given about Batman being the Dark Knight Gotham deserves but doesn't need and Batman being subsequently hunted for taking the fall for Harvey. Ultimately, the Joker was right in TDK. I've explained why before, but it still holds true here. Rather than the Joker's schemes being something that Gotham can put behind and set the stage for Bane, it becomes a stage-setter for future conflict and the potential for more of Batman's rogue gallery to come to the fore. What that looks like will be hinted at in the epilogue, but the craziness isn't over - it'll just look different.
Anyway, I'll stop rambling! I still want to have the last two chapters out for next weekend, but it might not be out until the Sunday or Monday. It'll be a wrap-up and show of what's going to happen in the sequel/where everyone is at the end of the story. I hope you'll let me know what you think, and I'll be back with the last updates soon! ❤