The Operating Theater.
Batman stands eight feet away from Two-Face. Too far away to simply jump ahead and disarm Dent; too close for some flashy acrobatics to try and get Robin away from him. Dent's paying scrupulous attention to the Dark Knight, and vice versa. By rights, it is a stalemate.
In a flash, Batman pulls one from his belt and flicks his wrist. The black sliver flies across the room and strikes Jonathan Crane across the forehead. The Scarecrow falls to the ground in blissful unconsciousness. The Raggedy-Ann doll rolls from his hands and comes to rest at Renee Montoya's foot. She eyes it nervously, afraid of leaking fear toxin, and tries to inch away.
And the Dark Knight has a problem of his own. In every mental scenario he runs Two-Face pulls the trigger, and another Robin dies. And Batman's not in the business of losing allies anymore.
Two-Face smiles, hideous and wicked.
"Did you see this coming, Bats? Did you ever expect you'd be double-crossed by Two-Face?"
Batman gives a terse reply: "It crossed my mind."
"Really?" Two-Face cocks his head.
"Yes," Batman starts pacing. He allows his cape to drape completely over his shoulders—the illusion in the darkness suggests he's simply a floating head. He follows a wide arc around Two-Face. "I had a suspicion when Crane went missing, and suspected you got the Joker off the island, too. But you couldn't have—you were in Maximum Security dealing with Zsasz."
"You really are a detective." Two-Face says it slowly. Dryly.
Batman stops pacing behind Two-Face and maintains the 8-foot radius. "I do what I can."
"So do I, Bats. Why else would I take your little jailbait here?"
"I wouldn't know, Harvey," Batman says, even though he does know better. Rather like the Joker, Dent has a peculiar attraction to endangering Robin over Batman. The Dark Knight knows this, using Dent's predictability to his own advantage. What's left of Harvey Dent scowls at the mention of his name. Batman continues: "It's not the first time you've staked a claim to one of my sidekicks."
"True. And I suppose you want to know what I want with him." Two-Face's eyes narrow. He tightens the headlock and the Boy Wonder chokes, trying to readjust to the shift in pressure.
"Not really," Batman says; his pacing brings him around to face the former DA again. "You'll kill him, just to prove you can. And then I'll throw you back in prison."
He throws one half of his cape back over his shoulders. Half of the yellow oval and elongated bat shows itself. Batman holds one arm akimbo, making certain Two-Face notices the index finger resting over a Batarang quick-release hasp. "But it doesn't have to be like this. You don't have to kill him to prove your point. The Quick Response Team is about five minutes out and when they get here, they're going to ask you very nicely to give him back. You don't see the way out of this, do you?"
"What?" Two-Face's reply is dead flat. He didn't see it coming.
"A way out," Batman says. "Confess to everything. Say it was Two-Face—not Harvey Dent—and they'll let you walk."
"And be called a liar, for the trouble?" Two-Face's eyes darken. "I think not."
Batman disregards it and continues. "But it was you. You preyed on this town's crooked justice system to slap your wrist and throw you in here instead of Blackgate. You're a smart man, Harvey, I'll give you that much. But not terribly clever. A clever man would've bribed the judge, like a certain mob boss we all know. Or knew—before you put two bullets in his head."
"Shut up!" Dent yells. His grip on the Boy Wonder slacks.
"You can't help it," Batman baits and starts pacing again. He forms one hand into a fist. Prepares himself for the coming eventuality. When Dent doesn't answer Batman does it for him: "This is insane, Harvey. You're thirty-eight years old, and you'll spend the rest of your life getting even with a dead gangster. You're a convicted felon, disbarred from practicing law ever again. Holding a sixteen-year old kid at gunpoint."
"Shut. Up!" Dent yells again, and fires the gun into the ceiling. The move gives Robin the opening he needs. He elbows Two-Face in the gut, flexes his arm in a backward arch and smashes Two-Face between the eyes with the back his hand. He goes into a low crouch and pivots on the balls of his feet to stare up at the former DA.
And the former DA stands there: motionless but slightly quivering. Stunned and deeply angered.
"Clever," he retorts and aims the gun at Robin.
Before he can take the shot, the Dark Knight intervenes, kicking the gun out of Two-Face's hand. The former DA stumbles backward. Batman grabs him by one lapel and punches him in the stomach.
Two-Face doubles over. Batman lifts his leg again and jams a knee into Dent's chin, and sends the former DA tumbling to the floor.
When Two-Face rights himself and his vision clears, he sees Batman standing over him.
"I don't want to bait you anymore. I want to help." Batman's voice trembles minutely. He glances across the theater to Gordon's bound officers and counts himself lucky that they can't see his eyes. He's dangerously close to compromising everything. "If you think I'm really Bruce Wayne, then we can use my money to rehabilitate you. Give you your life back."
And the theater lights blink to life. Batman and Two-Face glance around the room simultaneously. Two-Face props himself on one elbow and wipes a thin trail of blood from his lower lip. When he speaks, his voice is quiet furor.
"You…you double-crossing son of a bitch. After all these years, you think I'd trust you?"
"There's no one left. You've driven them all away." Batman's voice lightens. "Everyone except me. Whatever's happened, I want to move past it. I want to help you."
The Dark Knight holds extends a hand. Dent eyeballs it curiously.
It's a trick. He doesn't want to help you.
He bats it aside and scrambles across the floor for his Beretta. He grabs it hastily and stands. Batman doesn't intervene, and even when Two-Face aims the Beretta at him, he stays quiet.
Batman backs away and locks his eyes on the gun.
"You don't understand," Two-Face says. "No one's ever understood! You know where you can shove this upright citizen bullshit, Bats. You've hated me for everything I've done! Ever since I did us all a favor and plugged Falcone! You'd rather see people like him roaming the streets, wouldn't you?!" Two-Face's voice drops; a hoarse yell descends to a restrained anger. "Instead of your beloved freaks…you'd rather see Harvey Dent getting pushed around, just so you can be the bogeyman you've always wanted."
"You were obsessed, Harvey," Batman says ruefully. "I understand obsession, I understand pain. Sometimes…I share them. With someone like you."
Somewhere behind him, the theater doors swing open on rusty hinges. He hears the footfalls, and the rustling of gloved hands against assault rifles. He half-turns his head and sees a six-man squad of the Quick Response Team led by Commandant Bill Pettit. Two armored officers flank Batman on either side; two more head for Gordon's bound team across the room and free them in minutes.
The entire time, Batman stands motionless. Two-Face, likewise stoic, inhales deeply and lets it go.
Drops the Beretta. His arms dangle motionless at his sides.
Pettit motions to his officers. "Cuffs," he says in a thick tenor.
Two QRT officers clasp Dent's hands in cuffs. Batman holds out one hand and stops them.
"I'll take him."
The Guard's Desk.
Mayor Krol, Jim Gordon, Andy DeFilippis, and Bruce Wayne hover around the camera monitors, buried in a wraparound console.
Wayne has taken it upon himself to complete the Riddler's unfinished Solitaire game. Nigma meanwhile is restrained in the swivel chair, handcuffed around the vertical back support. He stares at Wayne quietly. Every few minutes his lips twitch angrily and Wayne thinks Nigma's cursing him.
Gordon and Krol pace nervously from one end of the hall to the other, in a sort of two-dimensional game of Pong.
Andy DeFilippis leans against one wall. He's the first to see Two-Face seemingly strolling towards him. His eyes go wide and he straightens himself in a paltry attempt to stand on ceremony for Dent.
Edward Nigma rotates the chair; he sees not only Two-Face, but Batman behind him, leading the former DA towards an inexorable arrest, and further back, the Boy Wonder.
His eyes narrow. His head jerks robotically to Wayne—himself, by design, blissfully unaware of anything going on—and then at Batman again.
"It's not…it's not possible," he mutters and stares at Batman with burning, hate-filled eyes.
Gordon raises an eyebrow and looks at Batman. "What's not possible?"
Nigma compares Wayne to Batman again. Shakes his head miserably and slouches. "Nothing."
Gordon does the same.
Harvey Dent's human lips smile thinly.
Bruce Wayne doesn't seem to pay any of them attention. He reshuffles the cards and lays out a new hand.
Gordon scratches his head and pulls Nigma away, motioning with one finger to DeFilippis. "You can explain it to the guards at Blackgate," he says. "Andy, take Mister Nigma and the Mayor out front, and tell Commandant Pettit we'll be out shortly."
DeFilippis complies, nodding, and leads Nigma away. Gordon's strike team—Montoya, Bullock and the rest—follow the junior officer. Gordon looks after them and waits until they're out of earshot to speak to Batman.
Gordon stares at Harvey Dent for a moment.
"Alright, how'd it happen?"
"I did what I wanted, Jimbo."
"Not what you 'had to?'" In the back of his mind, Gordon kicks himself for the derision.
"No," Dent says. "Not in that business anymore. I saved that Lieutenant Crosby of yours. You get him a good plastic surgeon; he might come out of this with only a little self-loathing."
"Enough," Gordon says quietly. "Why? There're no radios here. No cameras. This is off the record, Dent. So tell me why Nigma caused a few million in property damage and cost me one of my best officers?"
Dent's scarred half smiles, a hideous rictus. "You think Nigma did this for some scheme of glory? Playing his usual tricks?"
"It would make sense." Gordon stands his ground.
Dent frowns. "Predictable as ever, Jimbo. Nigma never really understood what he was getting into anyway. 'Course it doesn't matter now that his deal's off. In a few weeks those bridges will be back up and we'll be back in here, and you'll have the same problems you always have, Jimbo."
Gordon scowls, turns swiftly and walks away. His boots echo dully on the floor tiles.
Batman looks after him for a moment, grabs Two-Face by the cuffs, and starts moving, down the hallway to the front doors.
"You were quiet for once," Dent says of the Dark Knight. "No Sam Spademoment?"
"I'm sorry, Harvey," Batman says awkwardly.
Dent lets the admission hang in the air, as if to allow Batman to choke on it. He snickers, after a minute, and says: "I'm not."
Three days later.
The Batcave, underneath stately Wayne Manor.
Tim Drake approaches the Batcomputer with equal hesitation. Still hesitant, after all these years. Still hesitant because Bruce hasn't really done much in the past three days except sit at the Batcomputer and brood.
"I, uh, take it your impersonation…thing went well?
"Yes," Bruce says. "I hear Nigma won't shut up about it. The inmates at Blackgate won't tolerate him."
"Good," Tim says evenly and nods his head.
Tim's eyes roll in their sockets. Oh awkward silences…
"Alright, I can't take it anymore," he says after five minutes. "You've been mum ever since we got back from the Asylum. What's the deal, Bruce?"
"Several things," Bruce says and turns the chair around to face Tim. "How Arkham found out our identities. The explosives they used to blow the bridges. Where the Joker got off to. And something Harvey said to Gordon."
"Like what?"
"He mentioned Nigma making a deal with someone, a deal that's apparently expired. I want to know what that deal was."
"What if he was lying to you?" Tim asks. "I mean…this wouldn't be the first time he's led you on a wild goose chase. You think he's back to his old tricks? Despite what he said about Nigma?"
Bruce's eyes narrow. He turns back to the Batcomputer and opens Dent's file. "He had sessions twice weekly with Nybakken, trying to refuse his psychosis. Two-Face had been overcome, or so we all thought. With your life on the line, the only way to subdue him…was to prey on Harvey Dent's inferiorities."
"You sound disappointed," Tim says, half-amused. "Didn't know I was worth that much."
"I am" Bruce says. He sits back in his chair and supports his chin on one arm, staring at the screen thoughtfully. "Before his accident, we were…friends."
Silence. Tim lays a hand on Bruce's shoulder.
"I'm sorry," he says quietly.
Bruce disregards it and returns to the computer. He punches the keys and brings up a technical schematic of Arkham, as well as files on Poison Ivy and the Joker.
"There's something else," Bruce says. "I suspect it may tie into this deal Nigma made."
"What?" Tim asks.
"The blasts were too effective to be household chemicals mixed up in a bathtub somewhere. I'm thinking C4."
"Pretty straightforward," Tim says, somewhat astonished. "But where'd they get it?"
"That's what worries me. They couldn't have just cooked it up in some bathtub, and even if this is Gotham City, insane asylums don't have access to high explosives. So where did they get it?" Bruce asks the question and Tim suspects it's a highly rhetorical one.
Tim's eyebrows angle, his forehead furrows. "Could be industrial espionage. Cobblepot was in on this; you think he could've stolen from one of your warehouses while he was on the run?"
"No," Bruce says distantly. "Wayne Enterprises doesn't do heavy-arms manufacture. Period."
"Oh," Tim says, deflated. "So…what? Guess they don't make 'em like they used to."
"No one ever made them this good," Bruce says evenly. "There are maybe three other companies, within reason and convenience, that make me think Nigma went out of his way for this. STAR Labs is likely; their Gotham facility has the weapons contracts, but even Nigma couldn't break in without alerting the police. Same for K.O.R.D. Industries; they have the labs and the know-how, but the CEO knows all the wrong people."
"Who's the third?"
"LexCorp," he says dismally.
Metropolis.
Centennial Park.
"And no one's batted an eye about the pseudonym?"
"Let's face it, Mister Clean, people are idiots. I mean, 'Dr. Frederick Chilton?' Nobody even got the joke. It was a crappo gimmick to begin with. Too Riddler."
"I don't care. You have what you need. So get the hell out of my city."
"But we were so close! And I never got a chance to pester the Spam of Tomorrow! Where is he anyway?"
"Busy."
"Fine, I didn't ask for your life story. But I like it here. Sunshine, clean air. Maybe I'll introduce your loving populace to a 'Gotham-style' mugging. Sounds kinda dirty, doesn't it?"
"And what happened to your…what was it—savage journey to the heart of villainy?"
"I'm really just marking time until the spirit moves me, y'know? I wonder where I'll go first…"
Lex Luthor's lips form into a thin scowl. Ten yards away his '37 Phantom III hums idly, attended by a very GI-Jane-looking chauffeur. The Joker peers over Luthor's shoulder and cocks his head, staring longingly at the woman and her tailored peacoat, the ash-grey wool leading across her chest and buttoning at one side, leading down to—
"I want you out of my town by midnight tomorrow. Whatever you need, just get it and get out. I'll wire you a complimentary five grand to hasten your departure. Deal?"
The Joker lowers his head and gives a demure smile.
"Super," he says.
"And the next time we meet," Luthor says through tight lips. "I'll be calling in your debt, clown."
End...