Chapter 12

"In the flesh."

"But, they said you were dead!"

"Close, but not quite." Harvey Dent took a step towards them. "The cops who came for me, thinking they were coming for you, got me out of the room before it blew up. I got singed, but I survived." He gestured to his back, wincing in pain. "Second-degree burns all up and down my backside. Took a page out of Jim Gordon's playbook, and played dead till we could get the Joker."

"Harvey, listen to me—"

Dent fired a round at Batman's feet. "Shut up. Bet your wondering why I didn't get word to you, Rachel, that I was okay. Because I heard you on the radio before the bombs went off. You remember what you said, don't you?"

Behind him Rachel had come to Bruce's side. She stared at Harvey as if she were in a dream, a dazed look on her face. "I said, 'Bruce, oh no, not me'".

"Exactly – Bruce. It all made sense then—why the Batman took such special interest in you during the Narrows crisis, why you didn't accept my proposal the first time—in Wayne's pad, no less. Everything fits."

She walked slowly up to him. "Harvey, I only loved you—I told Bruce it was over between us, that I would choose you—"

—With a loud SMACK he struck her across the face with his gun, dropping Rachel to the ground. "Harvey!" Bruce yelled; he took a step towards him, but stopped with the barrel of the gun pointed straight at his face.

"Not now, Wayne, we're going to have it out soon enough. Back off." Bruce did so.

"You lying bitch," Dent yelled. "While I was recovering they told me about where you were spending your nights, your little visits to Wayne Manor. I'm sure everything was great for you two once I was out of the way."

"No, I didn't know, I needed you, I missed you—"

"Save it, sister." Dent turned his attention to Batman. "Good job, Bruce, no one ever suspected you."

"Why didn't you let the Mayor know then?"

Dent laughed bitterly. "Because despite cuckolding me, I believed in you. I thought you had what it takes. But you didn't, did you? When Garcia used Gordon to get the word to you that we'd back away if you solved the Joker problem, what did you do? You refused, saying you wouldn't kill."

Bruce taunted: "There's a law against that, don't you remember?"

"You're one to talk about obeying the laws," Dent shot back. "But you have the right idea—if you're going to break the law, do it in the shadows, with your hands out of sight. Garcia and I agreed, we'd bring in outside help to do the job you couldn't."

"Then why get Rachel involved?"

Dent chuckled. "I admit, I'm as surprised as you are she did. Garcia advised against it, but I was curious to see how she'd react," he said, pointing at Rachel, who was slowly crawling on hands and knees to Harvey. He squatted down on his knees to face her. "You did good, Rachel. Even if we didn't get the Joker, with your help we've cleaned out a lot of Gotham's trash."

Bruce was thunderstruck. "Harvey, you're the DA of Gotham! How could you possibly decide to do, to do… this?"

Dent stroked his chin contemplatively. "I suppose since this is the night of revealing secrets, I have a few to share of my own. Let's just say, to get ahead in this world, whether you're talking about the law or business or whatnot, you gotta bend the rules to get there."

Bruce remembered his shock at the Batman finding Dent playing Russian roulette with one of the assassins he caught. I should have known then…

Dent got back to his feet and cocked his gun at Batman. "So, how does this story end? I could kill you and Rachel. Or if we just burn this place down, all of us can just walk away scot-free."

"There has to be justice for what happened, what you did," Bruce growled.

"Oh really? You're gonna bring me down, just because I played a little rough?"

"Stop with the metaphors, you hired men to kill, and they killed dozens—"

"—don't kill him, Harvey." Rachel slowly rose to her feet, now standing a few feet away from Dent.

"Sorry, Rachel, it's over between us."

"Now that you're back from the dead, it's time we lived," Rachel said slowly, with a husky voice that was by-now quite familiar to Bruce.

Dent looked furious; his jaw quivered, and he finally said in a tight voice: "We were together! And you cheated on me! With him!"

"I'm so sorry, darling, but think about what happened. Bruce—Batman—saved me, but I was terribly injured. The Joker did bad things to me when I was in the hospital, and he got away." A tear rolled down Dent's cheek. "From that moment on, every part of my mind and body had only one goal: avenge your death by killing the Joker." She looked at Bruce, and her half-face became hard. "I hated Bruce because he failed to save you, but I did everything I could to get him to do what you said you wanted him to do—kill the Joker."

"It didn't work," Dent said sourly, "so you went to the next level, obviously."

Rachel tossed her head to make her hair flutter, and then unbuttoned another button on her blouse. "For the record, I never did it before with Bruce—you were my first, I loved only you."

"Huh. Not only me."

Rachel became agitated. "You were willing to do anything to get the Joker—so was I. Despite the fact that it repulsed me, I let Wayne have me to get information about the mob. It meant nothing, Harvey, nothing!"

Dent frowned and trained his gun on Rachel. "Tell me with a straight face you didn't enjoy it, and I won't kill you."

Rachel half-smiled and fully unbuttoned her blouse. Then she slipped her left arm out, so it half-hung on her body. "I have to be totally honest with you, Harvey… it did feel good." The gun trembled in his hand, but he did not fire. "But it was nothing like being with you. Afterwards I felt nothing for him." She gave Bruce a contemptuous look. "Bruce was such a wuss. Not like you, Harvey; you're a real man, and every time I was with him, I was thinking of the times you were having me, taking me, against my will." Smiling, she licked one of her fingers. "You remember the last time—how I was pleading and crying for you to stop, but you didn't, you just took what you wanted, and afterwards, how much I loved it. You remember darling, right?"

Bruce's stomach curdled but he said nothing. "I… I'm sorry, Rachel, but I just can't… you and him. Unless…" Dent pointed the gun at Bruce. "Turnabout's fair play."

"No, don't kill him!" Rachel suddenly moved in front of Bruce.

Enraged, Dent yelled: "See! You're still with him!"

"Don't kill him, because we can use him!"

Bruce seethed; Dent suddenly looked interested. "Go on."

Rachel slowly walked over to Dent. "Once we clean up things here, we can use Bruce as the Batman to do everything necessary to clean up Gotham. Think about it—our hands stay clean, and Batman can take the fall."

"Intriguing idea. What do you say about that, Bruce?"

"I'd say go ahead and kill me then."

"No, no, Rachel's right. Think about it, Wayne, between you and me the mob doesn't stand a chance. We can clean up Gotham in a year! And put the Joker's head on a pike as a cherry on top!"

"I don't work with killers," he said flatly, looking at Rachel. Then he looked at Dent. "Or those who hire killers."

Dent looked surprised. Lowering his gun, he implored: "Bruce, Bruce, why are you so hung up about that? Do you condemn the police, even though dozens of innocent civilians are accidentally killed by them every year?"

"Accidents aren't the same thing as executions!"

"Come on, we're a team, remember? You me and Gordon, we made a pact to clean up Gotham. We just got sidetracked, that's all!"

"You call this—" Bruce gestured around the room "—getting sidetracked?"

"Yep, and it's time to move forward." Dent raised his gun, pointing it at Bruce. "I'm afraid you have no alternative. Play along, or die."

"Then go ahead and kill me. Tell the whole world. In fact—" Bruce did the unprecedented and began removing his cowl. "Let everyone know about Batman. By the time the lawsuits are done with me, Bruce Wayne will be the most hated man in America. Everything about me ruined." He threw his cowl on the ground. "But I'd rather that happen, then fall in with your scheme."

Rachel looked confused. She stared at Dent nervously, who finally smiled. "Well, two can play at that game." Abruptly he dropped his gun. "Go ahead and stop us. If we're guilty, take us in to be punished. Throw away my legacy, Rachel's. Let it all burn down, and let the mob win. Let the Joker win."

Bruce did not respond. I'm guilty, too. But I put Dent on that pedestal. I can't bring him down without making all my work useless. "I have an alternative."

Dent snorted. "Nothing. Thought so. Rachel, start cleaning things up, and then we're leaving. We'll let you know what you have to do next."

Bruce had to stop them, but he still hesitated, unwilling to bring it all down now that he knew Dent was alive. God forgive me. "She lied to you, Harvey," he called out.

Dent froze in his tracks. "What?"

Bruce twisted the knife deeper, though it pierced them all. "Rachel's always loved me, even when she was with you."

Dent threw Rachel a dirty look, but then crookedly smiled. He said: "All right, you hit it good with her, but it was my fault. I forgive her, end of story." He turned away.

"Even before the Joker burned her, burned you, she told me that when the day came that Gotham no longer needed Batman, that we could be together." I hate myself! "She told me that the night before the press conference when you pretended to be Batman."

Dent stared. Then he turned to Rachel. "Is this true?"

"Harvey, it was nothing—"

"—she even wrote me a note reaffirming it. I can show it to you if you like."

Rachel looked scared. "He's lying, I thought he would never give it up, I wanted to let him down easy—"

"—so once we succeed, she'll come back to me, no matter what you think!"

"No!" Dent launched himself at Bruce, who defended himself as best he could, taking care not to harm Dent. "I'll kill you!"

"Harvey, listen to me, I have an idea—"

"—Shut up! You lousy bastard, I should have killed you—"

A third voice: "—indeed you should have. Now it's too late." Dent and Bruce stopped fighting; across the room, the man Rachel had shot was now standing behind her, holding a gun to her throat.

"Janos, let me go!"

"Sorry no." Harvey and Bruce got to their feet; Dent pulled out a pistol from his side and pointed it at him.

"Harvey, put the gun down!"

"Yes, Mister Dent, put the gun down or your dear sweet Rachel dies." Janos smiled and whispered into her ear: "A tip for the future, dear: always shoot at skin."

"No deal," Dent said as he aimed his pistol at Janos.

"You mean, no choice but a deal." He slowly backed up towards the exit. "Smith must have sold us out, meaning you paid him enough to make it worth your while. No matter, there is no problem money cannot solve. Pay us one hundred million, we release our hostage, and the deal is done."

"Stop now," Bruce growled.

"Ah yes, Mister Wayne! Never know when fortune smiles on you. Our representatives will be in touch with your office soon enough. I'm thinking, fifty million for the next ten years should be enough to keep our mouths shut."

Dent aimed for the ceiling about Janos and fired; Janos almost pulled the trigger, but was disciplined enough not to. "My final warning—let her go, or I'll kill you."

"As you Americans like to say, over her dead body." He jammed the gun deeper into Rachel neck.

"Shoot the bastard, I'm no good!" Rachel shouted.

"Let them go, Harvey, we'll deal with this later."

"No," Dent said resolutely, "that attitude's what's gotten Gotham into the trouble it's in. I'm drawing the line here."

"Enough talk; I go now. Drop the gun, or she never leaves."

Dent glowered at Janos, then abruptly dropped his pistol. Smiling, Janos slowly backed up to the door. He reached down to open the door; fumbling with the lock, his eyes darted down for an instant.

In that instant Harvey whipped out a gun from behind his back. He and Janos fired simultaneously.

"No!" Bruce cried. As the proverbial smoke cleared, there were three bodies on the ground: Janos had taken a bullet to his carotid artery; Harvey's body was twitching after Janos' shot smashed into his left cheek; and Rachel—

"Rachel, Rachel!" Bruce bounded over to her and cradled her in his arms. Harvey's shot had gone through her throat and exited the back of her neck, killing Janos. Blood spurted profusely, as Rachel struggled to remain conscious.

"It's okay, Rachel, just relax," Bruce said as he frantically searched for something to stem the flow of blood."

"Harvey…" Rachel bubbled weakly.

"He'll be fine, just stay with me. Stay with me, and you'll be together, I promise."

"Bruce…what have I done?"

"Don't talk!"

"I'm sorry…" she reached up and touched his cheek.

"Stay with me!"

Coughing, Rachel spat out more blood. Her right eyelid fluttered and she slumped over.

"No! Rachel, wake up, wake up!" Bruce slapped her, shook her.

Rachel's right eye widened, until it was as wide-open as her lidless left. Coughing, she said softly: "Forgive me Bruce… you were right.. about everything… I… love you too…" Her body then shuddered and went limp in his arms.

"Rachel! RACHEL!" Bruce screamed. But Rachel was still, her right eye closed while her left eye stared baldly back.

Bruce Wayne pulled the body of Rachel Dawes to him, rocking back and forth as he cradled her face in his hands and wept uncontrollably.

Epilogue

EXCLUSIVE: BATMAN BEHIND GOTHAM DEATH SQUADS!

Having just addressed the frenzied mob of reporters, Mayor Garcia retired to his office to read the morning papers with mounting delight—they all told the shocking story of how Gotham police had uncovered the secret hideout of the mercenaries terrorizing Gotham, and found mountains of evidence that the Batman was the force behind them all. Tragically a secret investigating team from the DA's office had suffered great loss as assistant DA Rachel Dawes had been killed by the Batman, and District Attorney Dent—who had faked his death to protect himself while investigating the Joker—seriously injured…

Sometimes, even when something goes bad, it turns out all right in the end. He could not have imagined a way to wrap things up as cleanly as it was: all the mercenaries dead, along with Dawes; the records destroyed; and Dent keeping quiet. We 'fatcats', as those damn liberal rags like to call us, have a knack for winning more than losing!

He took out a Cuban and lit it up, smoking profusely. I wonder how Dent pinned it all on the Batman. No matter; with the entire Gotham police force enraged at the Dark Knight for killing all their crooked (and non-crooked) brethren, he wouldn't be a threat much longer. Even the mob is on the run!

The only downside, apart from Dent's injuries, was the fact that the Joker was still loose. Maybe the Batman and the Joker were in cahoots? If so, that could be a problem. Still, no matter how disruptive, he was just one crazy guy.

He buzzed his secretary. "Claire, cancel my schedule for the rest of the day." A good day like this was better spent yachting with his billionaire benefactors than doing actual work. Good days ahead indeed!

"Please, let me go!"

"And why should I do that?"

"Because I did everything he told me to!"

"Is that right?"

"Yeah it is," said Joe Smith the Facilitator. Fazzio lifted his head in relief, hoping against hope that he'd make it. Next to him, a clown tsked-tsked.

"Well, one the one hand I have to trust my people," the Joker said, running a hand through his wavy green hair. Fazzio smiled. "On the other hand—"

—the Joker took out his pistol and blasted Fazzio between the eyes. A look of shocked surprise was frozen on his face as he slumped to the ground.

"Looks like the Frog croaked! Ha ha ha ha ha!" Joe Smith and the other two henchmen laughed along uneasily, but the Joker hardly noticed. With a flourish he jumped onto the couch and kicked up his legs, staring happily at the ceiling.

"You set it up real good," Joe Smith said.

"I'm just damn good at what I do, that's all." The Joker's smile hid his disappointment at his incomplete victory: while the police had been humiliated and the mob all-but-crushed, the Batman was still on the playing field, although being hunted down like never before. And Dent was still alive, recovering and still in mourning for the death of his beau. Against his better judgment he decided to indulge in a little logic.

Batman and Dent were crazy about that broad. Now that the Batman has been charged in her murder, DA Dent's not gonna be a happy camper! If he was lucky, one of them would kill the other; if he was real lucky, they would both become homicidal maniacs. Like me!

He sighed. Such a shame I don't know who the Batman is. But on second thought, it's better this way. After all, I'm so ahead of the game with him, I have to give him some handicap.

It was all good. "Gentlemen, tomorrow is going to be even better than today! Hahahahahaha!"

Jim Gordon pointed his gun at the Batman. "I guess this is it, then."

"I guess so. If you're certain, pull the trigger. You'll be a hero."

Slowly Gordon lowered his gun. Without saying another word he turned away and looked out into the night. "Why?"

"We have to make the best of a bad situation."

"That's the understatement of the century."

"He's still Gotham's white knight, on the outside at least. As long as we keep him on the pedestal, nice and clean, it'll all work out."

"But you're saying that it's all a lie. Underneath it all…"

"Garcia acted with the best of intentions. So did his backers. So did Dent."

"And Miss Dawes?"

The Batman was silent. When he spoke, he sounded pained: "She made some very bad choices. And paid the price for it." He paused. "I'll take the fall for everyone this time. Hopefully I won't have to do it again."

Gordon turned back to face him. "But it wasn't you!"

Now the Batman turned away. "It's better this way."

Gordon pinched his nose in frustration. "You don't have to take the blame for everything. If we're going to cook the books, why not make them shine like silver instead of smelling like sh—you know?"

Turning around, the Batman smiled at Gordon's use of the well-known metaphor for financial fraud in Gotham. But his words were somber: "Because ultimately it's still all my fault."

"No it isn't—"

"—if I had stopped the Joker back at the ferries, none of this would have happened. As long as Dent does the right thing, we can salvage this disaster of my making, and still save Gotham."

"What about Dent and his powerful friends?" Gordon asked uneasily.

"Hopefully they learned not to try and swim in the sewers anymore." The Batman came up to him. "From now on, do everything above-ground, and we'll get it done."

"What about you? Everyone now hates you. You'll be hunted. If they catch you…"

"Don't worry about me. First, get the Joker. Then keep going after the mob. And…"

"What?"

"Keep an eye on Dent. Beyond that, we'll see. I can't predict the future."

"Too bad." Gordon thought about it some more, then made his decision. "You saved Dent, and since you've taken the fall, that means for better or worse we'll have to follow his lead. But I want you to know something."

"What?"

Gordon offered his hand. "I believe in the Batman."

The Batman said nothing; Gordon could not read his features behind the mask, but damned if he didn't think his eyes were getting moist! Then he reached out and shook. "Thank you."

"You're welcome." Without another word the Batman took off and left.

Now I have to pretend I believe in Dent, Gordon thought sadly. Assuming what the Batman said was true—and he believed him—Dent was far worse than even Flass and all the others. Plus the Mayor and all the fatcats too. But if Dent decided to play it level and fight the mob cleanly, everything would be okay. If not…

…we may still need the Batman, even if he doesn't owe us anything more. He shook his head again in marvel at what the Batman was willing to do for the people of Gotham. What kind of man could be so strong, so giving?

Gordon hoped he would know the secret before he—or the Batman—died, but he had a chilly suspicion his hope would not come to pass.

All the attendees had finally left, allowing Bruce and Alfred to spend one last moment alone at Rachel's graveside.

"I failed you, Rachel," Bruce cried, tears flowing, his voice choked with more grief and pain than Alfred had ever heard another man speak. "I loved you, but I couldn't save you."

He dropped down to the ground, clutching the wet earth in his hands, weeping. Alfred let him do this for some time, then when Bruce finally fell silent, bent down and gently said, "We should go Bruce."

To his surprise Bruce quickly picked himself up and sniffed. "All right. Let's go."

It was a grim drive back to Wayne Manor. Bruce dwelled on the memory of Rachel's open casket. Thanks to the heroic efforts of the best morticians in Gotham, Rachel's lovely features had finally been restored; no longer was she Janos-faced, but still, peaceful, and whole. As if her sins had been washed away. If only...

Again Bruce cursed his failure to check if that mercenary had been truly neutralized; had it been so, he might have been able to convince Rachel and Harvey to go along with his original plan of taking responsibility, to get them off the hook. The litany of her crimes casts a shadow from the grave—over me. No longer her burden, they will be mine for the rest of my days.

"As Batman," he said softly to himself.

"You said something, sir?"

"No, nothing."

"Bruce, what's really troubling you?"

Normally Bruce would ignore such a question, either because he didn't have the answer or because he didn't want to say. But in this case, he did have and answer, and he decided he did want to speak. "What's really troubling me is that the last thing I did with Rachel and Harvey together was try to turn them against each other, using Rachel's words against him."

"Ah, the letter she wrote."

"Yes." In retrospect, he had done it in haste, panicked at the thought that Harvey and Rachel would leave and become partners in crime. I'm willing to take the fall for a lot of things, but not for that! "I thought I was doing it to make sure they would not continue to do criminal acts together." He paused. "But I have to admit, when I found out Harvey was alive, part of me also wanted to make sure Rachel would not go back to him."

"Do you think that would have happened?"

"I don't know." Was she faking it? If so she definitely had him fooled. Then he shook his head. "Had she not done the things she did, I'm sure Rachel would never have approved of Harvey's actions." And then chosen me?

"Yet do you think Harvey Dent approved of Rachel's actions, once she said she had chosen him?"

"No, but I think he looked the other way." I know what you're going to say Alfred, so just say it…

Alfred was silent for a while, then said: "Would you have looked the other way, too?"

He could only answer truthfully: "I might have."

Alfred nodded. "No need to tell you things are not black and white. There are infinite shades of gray."

"Is that the ultimate lesson of all this? Of the Batman?"

"You strive to do what's right. In so doing, you do a lot that, in isolation, would be judged wrong." Bruce couldn't disagree with that. "Knowing what Rachel did, could you have accepted her?"

Another question with no good answer. "The part of me that's Bruce Wayne, that learned from Rachel that revenge was wrong, and killing always wrong, would have to say no."

"And the part that is Batman?"

Bruce stroked his chin thoughtfully. "Would not have excused her. But would have forgiven her."

"Perhaps it's all for the best."

Bruce snorted. "No it's not, because it's all my fault. If I had saved Rachel, prevented her from being burned, none of this would have happened."

"And if you had saved Dent instead? Would he have sought revenge for Rachel's death, as she did for Dent's?"

"We'll find out, won't we?"

"I guess we shall."He fell silent, then asked: "What now for Batman?"

Bruce shook his head. "I guess, lay low for a while. The ball's in Dent's court."

Alfred sighed. "You Americans and your sports analogies."

Bruce couldn't help but smile. "Sorry. If he's still needed, to go after the Joker, he'll rise again."

"And what happens if he's not needed? Or if the mission is complete?"

Bruce wiped his eyes. "Then I try to figure out how to live life without Rachel."

Alfred said nothing after that. Finally they arrived at Wayne Manor. As they walked towards the massive home, Alfred said: "One last thing."

"Go ahead."

"No matter what she did, I also grieve for Rachel's loss, and for the loss of the happiness you two shared, however briefly."

Bruce tried to smile. "Thanks Alfred."

"There's more, Bruce. If I may: please don't allow yourself to be lost in grief for Rachel. When the time is right, you must move on."

Feeling his pain, Bruce said: "I don't know if I'll ever move on."

"You can, and you will. In life Rachel herself would have told you to do so."

And in death, Rachel's actions and death is a warning of what may happen if I don't. Bruce reached over and hugged Alfred tightly. "I've never thanked you enough for everything you've done for me, Alfred," Bruce said tightly.

"You'll never have to, Bruce."

In a private isolation ward, Harvey Dent lay in his bed, recovering. Seething.

…The Joker maimed Rachel; the Batman killed Rachel; I will kill the Joker; I will kill the Batman… The Joker maimed Rachel; the Batman killed Rachel; I will kill the Joker; I will kill the Batman…

Over and over in his mind he obsessed over that night, cursing beyond what words could convey that he could not recall all the details. Neural damage caused by bone fragments displaced upwards from the gunshot, entering your cerebellum. Possibly permanent, prognosis of recovery—unknown. Those words infuriated him almost as much as Rachel's death.

The more he thought about it, the more unfair it seemed. Everyone got out of this mess scot-free, except Rachel and myself! He remembered his fury when he first came to—for his burns, for what happened to Rachel, and for the Batman failing to save her or get the Joker. Lost in a drug-induced haze, he began preparations to use mercenaries to hunt down the Joker and his associates; he even suggested that they approach Rachel for help. And what do I get for my troubles? Rachel's dead, and the Joker is alive. Will Gordon get in trouble? No. What about Garcia? Hands spot-clean. Same with all his backers, like Bruce Wayne.

"Bruce Wayne," he said over and over. Rachel said nothing happened between them. She said she was going to marry me—before she died. Try as he could, he could not remember anything else. There's something else, something… When he asked, the people around him said that they did not have any evidence Rachel was seeing Wayne while he was incommunicado. But absence of evidence is not evidence of absence.

What he did have was the plain facts: the Joker had maimed Rachel, and the Batman had killed her. I trusted the Batman could get the job done, but he couldn't keep Rachel from being horribly burned and maimed, suffering to the end. And the memories of her final moments were clear in his mind. Batman kept telling me not to give in to terrorists; he told me not to worry, he would take care of things. So I dropped my gun just like he said. Then he fired at the gunman. His bullet killed Rachel along with the gunman, and instead of hitting him, the gunman's bullet hit me.

And as a result, the Batman was free—although under a warrant for the murder of Rachel Dawes and dozens of others—and he was in a hospital, with only a partial memory.

"No!" With a fury he hurled the glass at his bedside at the wall, shattering it. Then he wept at the futility of it all. "Oh Rachel," he cried. "Rachel, Rachel!"

…The Joker maimed Rachel; the Batman killed Rachel; I will kill the Joker; I will kill the Batman… The Joker maimed Rachel; the Batman killed Rachel; I will kill the Joker; I will kill the Batman…

Later when he was fully recovered, Garcia and Gordon called, telling him they wanted him to do a press conference as soon as possible, to reassure the public that the Joker and Batman would be apprehended. He told them to wait a while, there was something else he had to take care of first.

I'll take care of the Joker and Batman, Dent told himself. We screwed up before, but this time, we'll do it right. I'll get all the old money in this city to back me up, select the right men in blue to carry it out, and we'll sweep the streets clean. From the biggest mobster to the lowest stickup man or street punk, they'll all get in line or go down for good. Justice is coming to my city.

Starting first with the Joker and the Batman.

Suddenly he broke down and wept uncontrollably. The image of Rachel's half-burned face was etched into his memory; every waking moment Dent saw her. And I feel her pain! They told me even with the maximum amount of painkillers tolerable, she would have been in excruciating, agonizing pain, from the moment she woke up to the moment she died.

The memories of his happy times with Rachel—their first meeting and dates, the cases they won in court, the nights of passion where she submitted to his every whim—were all he had left of her, and they constituted a psychological torture all their own. The only time I'm not tormented by her loss is when I try to forget her—but when I do, it's an all-new torture!

He had to do something to stop the pain, something that would burn in him her memory forever. This would be a reminder of what he had lost, of what had been done to what he had lost, and what he would do to avenge it all. And there's no going back. But then he faltered. Is this truly the right course of action?

"Only one way to find out." Dent took out his lucky coin. "Heads we go through with this, tails we move on and forget the whole thing." He flipped it in the air, caught it and covered it with his hand. Fifty-fifty. He pulled his hand away: heads. It's settled.

In his apartment, far from watching eyes, Dent had assembled before him the tools he needed to imprint his lesson: a blowtorch, fire extinguisher, a mirror, surgical tweezers, and antiseptics. Calmly he stripped off his clothing until he stood topless. Looking into the mirror, he clinically noted his perfect physique, marred only by rapidly-healing scars on his back.

These next few won't disappear so quickly.

Harvey Dent felt calmer than he ever did. Taking a deep breath, he sat in front of the mirror with his blowtorch. Without any hesitation he turned it on; the hot blue flame burst forth, hovering a few inches from the nozzle. He brought it towards him.

Instantly his nose filled with the acrid stink of burning flesh. Dent had wondered if this would hurt, but just as the doctors told him it didn't—all the surface nerves on the left side of his face had been severed, and he felt nothing, nothing but a slight tingle. Pausing, he looked into the mirror; the results were encouraging, so he continued.

More and more of his flesh sizzled and burned. He ran circles over his cheek, and up and down his jawline. When the fire burned through and he could feel the heat on his tongue he stopped, knowing he had gone far enough. He looked in the mirror again; he was getting closer.

A few more passes and the face was complete. Wait—not yet! Chiding himself for almost forgetting, he got closer to the mirror and closed his left eyelid for the last time. Holding the fire close, the darkness that he saw out of his left eye shimmered, and became red, then blue. Removing the flame, he examined his handiwork critically. Just a little more. Again the flames licked, and the charred remains fell away. Perfect.

Dent turned off the torch. He sprayed his face with antiseptic, then examined his handiwork. Just as Rachel was, the left side of his face had been burned to a crisp. His left eyelid was gone, leaving a stark-white eyeball staring forever outwards. Most of his cheek was burned away, leaving a few tendons exposed to cover his jaw.

Like his dead love, he had been marked, but while her burns were a sign of weakness and shame, failure and loss, his would be a sign of determination and pride; a sign of what was, what is, and what would be to come.

The last thing the Joker and Batman will see is a reflection of their fate, only unlike Rachel and me, they will burn all the way.

"They called me Two-Face in MCU while I was in IA," Dent said darkly. "They have no idea." Two-Face began putting on his suit. It was time to get down to business, and God help anyone who got in his way.

The End