Chapter Text
Harvey Dent, now Two-Face, sat in the dark, the only sound in the room was the steady clink of his coin flipping through the air. It had become a kind of ritual, as if the coin could give him the answers he was looking for. But it never did. Not for the questions that gnawed at him—why justice had failed him, why the world was so cruel, or why good men had to suffer. Each flip was a reminder that there were no answers, only chance.
Chance…that was the thing he clung to. It rarely brought peace, but at least it felt honest. Chance could explain why children died before they had a shot at life. It stripped away reason, erased blame. It lets you stop looking for meaning in a world that doesn't offer any. In its own bleak way, that was comforting.
He thought of his friend, Bruce Wayne. His parents had been shot in front of him. Harvey remembered how Bruce used to search for something bigger to blame, like that would make it make sense. Give it weight. But in the end, the man who did it… he was just that. A man. No monster. Nothing grand or poetic. Just a person with a gun, and that was the worst part. There was nothing meaningful about it.
Harvey caught the silver dollar in his palm and stared at it for a long moment before closing his fist around it. His gaze shifted—accusing and sharp—to the man tied up on the floor in front of him, still squirming, still gagged. Suddenly, Harvey rose from his leather chair.
“Joe Bandano. Thirty-seven. Muscle for Sal Maroni,” Harvey announced, like he was addressing a packed courtroom instead of a single man tied and gagged on the floor. He turned theatrically, playing to an invisible jury, pacing like a prosecutor delivering his opening statement.
“I see that you’re a little tied up- gag in your mouth and all. That’s fine. You can just nod for me,” he said, voice cool and performative, as if this were just procedure.
“Tell me,” Harvey snapped. “After I refused to drop Sal Maroni’s case…is it true he sent his dogs to teach me a lesson?” The man on the floor nodded, trembling. His face was soaked in sweat, a vein in his forehead twitching like it might burst.
Harvey stepped closer now. “And is it true,” he continued, slower now, “that you were one of them?” Another nod. Shakier this time.
“Truer than that—“ Harvey’s voice cracked into something raw, shaking with rage, “—were you one of the bastards who broke into my home… and raped and murdered my wife?”
The man froze. His breath hitched. For a second, he didn’t move at all. Then, barely, he nodded. Ashamed, afraid, and finally realizing just how far past forgiveness this moment was.
“Guilty…” Harv muttered, pacing. “That’s the thing about guilty men. They only feel bad once they’ve been caught.”
He kicked the man hard in the ribs, in the breath stealing kind of way. The body jerked violently. Joe’s face was flushed and soaked, eyes bloodshot, glassy. Whatever bravado he once had was gone.
Harvey crouched beside him, calm now, almost gentle. He wiped a tear from the man’s cheek with mock tenderness, his expression was hard to read at the moment. Then, he just stared. Watched him squirm. Watched him beg without words.
He pulled out the coin. Flipped it. Let it spin high into the air and land with a sharp slap in his palm. He didn’t look at it right away. He wanted to drag out the moment. Then he stood. Looked.
Burnt side up.
Joe’s eyes went wide. He screamed through the gag, but nothing came out. Just wet, panicked noise. Harv tilted his head. “They always look so pathetic in the end.” He took a deep breath, steadying his aim. “Goodbye, Joe.”
One shot. Clean. Point blank.
The room was silent.
Harv walked back to his desk in silence and sank into the chair with the kind of ease you’d expect in someone’s living room. Not a room that had just held an execution. He gave the seat a lazy spin, turning slowly. It was almost innocent, child like even. Like he had too much energy and nowhere to put it. Unsettling, really, how normal it looked.
The chair creaked softly as it turned, and Harv let the silence stretch, his eyes fixed on nothing.
Across Gotham, the city pulsed on…it was louder, messier, and meaner than ever.
In a cluttered lair, Edward Nygma skimmed the morning paper with increasing irritation. Pages rustled, headlines screamed with names like: ‘Falcone Daughter resurfaces’, ‘Two-Face topples Maroni Holdout’, and ‘Cobblepot losing ground’.
Not a single mention of himself.
“Unbelievable,” he muttered, crumpling the page. “All this noise and I’m not even in the story?” Across the room, Miss Tuesday popped her gum without looking up from her handheld game. “Because you didn’t do anything, genius.”
Edward narrowed his eyes. “I’ve been cultivating a strategic absence.”
“Uh-huh.”
He folded the paper with more aggression than necessary and stood. “Fine, if Gotham wants theatrics, I’ll give it some. But not with her—“ he shuddered slightly. “The last time Sofia Falcone and I shared a room, she tried to introduce my skull to a hydraulic press. Never again!”
Miss Tuesday raised a brow, unimpressed.
“So,” he concluded, straightening his tie, “that leaves the other one. The coin-flipping lunatic.”
Another gum pop. “Sounds stable.”
Edward smirked. “Stability is overrated. Infamy, though? That’s worth something.”
“To those with minds small enough to care,” Tuesday muttered, not even looking up. Edward shot her a glare, nothing lethal, just wounded pride, but didn’t dignify it with a retort.
“Anyway,” he continued, dusting off his ego, “I’ve decided to align myself with the former district attorney. Dent. Or, as he’s now so fondly called, Two-Face.”
He paused for dramatic effect.
“He’ll need my genius if he wants to be a real player in Gotham’s criminal scene, of course.”
Tuesday blew a bubble and let it pop. “He’s doing fine without you. You get caught like… bi weekly.” Edward’s eye twitched at that. “To be fair, Tuesday, he hasn’t had any direct encounters with the bat.”
“Yet.”
Edward ignored her and turned to his monitors, muttering under his breath, “a minor technicality.”
His fingers clacked furiously against the keys, each press fueled by that unbearable, gnawing need to be the center of everything. It was a spotlight now dimmed by Two-Face’s sudden ascent.
It was infuriating.
Worse, he suspected that Batman liked him. Two-face. Or—no, Harvey Dent. Back when he still wore solid colored suits and got kidnapped by the rogue-of-the-week like it was a hobby. Batman always came for him. Always looked… bothered. Never said it outright, of course, but Edward noticed. He noticed everything.
Maybe the bat believed in Harvey Dent. Maybe he still did. More than that, Edward hated how much that bothered him.
Finally, Gotham’s street surveillance came to life on his screen. Grainy footage of the entire city were all laid bare at his fingertips. He combed through time stamps, flipped through endless gray moments until…there. Two-face slipping into an old, dilapidated building. A hideout, clearly.
Edward leaned back, fingers steepled, already savoring the plan forming in his mind. He would go there. Meet him. Propose the alliance he’d already decided was inevitable. In fact, the thought of it had started to feel comforting. Like fate.
Time stretched, the seconds heavy, as Harvey paced restlessly in his hideout. The creak of an old door snapped his attention to the entrance.
Edward Nygma stood there, framed in the doorway, exuding a level of confidence that seemed almost…too confident. Like he expected to be welcomed. The two lock eyes. Harvey stared, brow confused at the audacity, but even more annoyed that he was confused.
Edward walked in like he was gracing the room with his presence, each step dramatically flamboyant, almost mocking. Harvey’s gaze swept him, sizing him up.
“Two-face, Two-face t—“ Edward started, but Harvey cut him off. “Two times is enough,” Harvey declared sharply. Edward smirked. “Ah, yes. Two…” He glanced around the less than appealing surroundings, his eyes landing on a framed picture on his desk. “…Charming place you got here, Dent.”
He took a couple steps closer, his tone light, and a little patronizing. “I’m here to offer you something. Maybe the better half of you will like it.” Harvey’s expression soured, and he crossed his arms. “Why are you here, Riddler?”
“To propose an alliance, of course,” Edward began, his tone not without self-assurance. “You’re strong, strategic, and have street cred—smart too. But smart enough…? No. Never enough. That’s where I come in. I’m brilliant (and second to none).” He leaned back, basking in his own words, a proud smirk playing on his lips.
There was a pause, like Harvey was considering the offer. But instead of considering it, Harv just laughed.
“Not smart enough? I’ve been doing just fine, thank you.” He gave a mocking chuckle. “And that ‘second to none’ line? Hilarious. What about Batman, Eddie? Pretty sure he’s had you beat at every turn.”
Edward’s face reddened, a mix of embarrassment and simmering anger. “Only because he cheats,” he snapped, defensive. Harvey leaned in, his voice condescending. “You can’t cheat in a game you don’t play, Ed.”
Edward stood frozen for a moment, but quietly composed himself. Partnering with Two-Face was his smartest move right now, especially with gang wars he already knew would brew in this state of Gotham.
“I offer my mind to you one last time, Dent. I-“
“Edward Nygma, or Nashton depending on who’s asking. Thirty-eight years old. Self-proclaimed outsider, misunderstood genius turned vigilante turned villain,” Harvey cut in, pacing like a prosecutor mid-argument. “I read somewhere you’re Batman’s second most prominent adversary…” He paused, smirking. “I’m jealous.”
He lets that one have its effect before continuing. “You know why you’re not interesting to me or the bat? ‘Cause you’re just like every other man who thinks they are.” Harvey circled him slowly, coin dancing between his fingers.
A moment.
“But lucky for you, you’re right—my better side does like you. Normal side, we partner up. Burned side, you die.”
Before Edward can even blink, Harvey flips the coin. Ed’s eyes widen. He doesn’t breathe.