"Ladies and gentlemen, Gotham has a sickness."
The camera's flashed all around the debonair prosecutor began his keynote speech. Facing back against the hoard of reporters was a huge campaign banner, a suave smile of pearly whites flanked by American flags like a golem defending the castle. The man on stage paused for a moment, letting the weight of his words sink in, the crowd waited with bated breath.
"And that sickness has a name. In Latin they would call it 'scelus', in our tongue we call it crime. Me? I call it Cobblepot, Falcone, Sionis."
The names echoed through the room like gunshots. A few gasps rippled through the gathered press, their pens scratching furiously under the sea of mumbles each asking the other if they could believe he mentiond them by name began to rise. His dark eyes scanned the crowd, the flashbulbs stuttering like lightning on a stormy coast.
"Gotham's veins are clogged with it. Its courts are shackled by it. Our streets, our homes, our children - all live under its shadow. And every day, the people of this city are told to settle. To settle for less safety, less dignity, less justice...because they say Gotham can't be saved. That it's not worth saving!"
Harvey Dent leaned forward on the podium, his eyes flush with passion underneath the practiced calm he displayed on that stage. "I say they're wrong. Dead wrong." His reply was a ripple of applause that cracked across the room like dry timber catching fire. He allowed himself a smile.
"I've stood in those courtrooms and watched monsters walk free because they could buy the law, or intimidate it, or twist it to their advantage. I've seen good cops buried while their killers drink champagne in penthouses. I've seen our leaders turn their backs on us because it's easier to negotiate with the mob than to fight them. Gotham does not need another warlord. It does not need another masked savior swooping through the night, deciding who is guilty and who is not. What Gotham needs is law. Order. A justice system that works - and a District Attorney who will not be bought, bent, or broken."
He straightened his tie, his eyes burning with conviction.
"Good people of Gotham, I say again. Gotham has a sickness. But I intend to be the cure."
Thunderous applause roared to life, cameras flashing so wildly it looked like an electrical storm. James Gordon, seated to Dent's right, smiled up at him, shooting him a thumbs up from underneath the desk.
"On election day," Harvey's voice boomed over the applause, "You're not just voting for me! You're voting for a future where the law belongs to the people again. Where justice isn't for sale. Where Gotham can finally stand tall!"
The crowd erupted. Dent raised one fist high, then pointed to the large window at the back of the room, a stunning view of the Gotham river and the city beyond it.
"This is our city!" he declared. "Let's take it back!"
The army of journalists swarmed the would-be District Attorney as he exited the building, flanked by Gilda Gold, his fiance and the decidedly less lovely Commissioner Gordon, who seemed to be a stone's throw away from beating the crowd back with a campaign placard. The three climbed into the back of a sleek black town car as the chaos of shouted questions and flashing bulbs beat against the windows like hail. As the car began to pull away, Harvey rolled down the window and flashed a peace symbol with his fingers in front of a practiced smile.
He rolled up the window. Inside, the noise dulled to a muted hum. Harvey exhaled slowly, shoulders sinking as if he'd just finished holding up the whole city on his back. Gilda laid a hand gently on his arm. "Harvey, you were incredible."
He gave her a smile, much more genuine and tired than the one he'd flashed out the window moments before.
"I have to be. This is a race for the finish. Second place is losing."
Gordon grunted, tugging at his collar, undoing the top button and loosening his tie.
"Careful out there, Harv. Dropping names like Sionis and Falcone - hell, even Cobblepot? That's blood in the water, kid. They won't like it."
"They don't have to like it." Harvey shot back. "They just have to learn there's a line now. And I'm the one drawing it."
Gilda's fingers tightened. "And what about the one already out there crossing lines?"
Harvey looked at her, puzzled for only a moment. "Batman."
Gordon leaned forward. "People are split on him. Half think he's a savior. The other half think he's a lunatic in a cape."
"I think he's a symptom." Harvey said coldly. "A side effect of a city that’s stopped believing in its own laws. If we do our jobs, if the people trust us to fight for them...there won't be a need for him anymore." He paused for a moment. "Hey, hold on, someone write that down."
The three smiled to each other. The car went quiet for a moment as the skyline of Gotham rolled past the tinted windows - neon lights flickering over cracked concrete, the black water of the river below cutting the city into two jagged halves.
Harvey spoke again, softer now, almost to himself.
"Gotham doesn't need a dark knight. It needs a district attorney."
Gilda watched him with worried eyes, and Gordon just stared ahead grimly, the city lights reflecting in the lenses of his glasses.
Deep beneath the foundations of Wayne Manor, the world narrowed to darkness, stone, and the low hum of electronics.
The Batcave was silent except for the steady click-click-click of a projector reel feeding news footage onto the cavern wall. The ghostly image of Harvey Dent loomed across the jagged rock, frozen mid-sentence, fist raised like a conquering hero.
Bruce sat back in the chair, he adjusted his glasses and then allowed his chin to rest on his fist. He was deep in thought, a state of being he often found himself in much more recently. He hit a key on the keyboard to his left and the projector clicked on again. Dent's passionate voice echoed through the cave once more. A few bats stirred further into the chamber.
"Gotham does not need another warlord. It does not need another masked savior swooping through the night, deciding who is guilty and who is not. What Gotham needs is law. Order." The sound bounced off the stone and water all around him.
Alfred appeared behind him, tray in hand, the smell of fresh coffee cutting through the cold.
"Rousing, wasn't it?" the butler said mildly. "A touch self-righteous if you ask me, but I suppose that's the job description."
Bruce didn't answer, he continued to stare at the broadcast, almost hypnotized by it.
"He has a point, Master Bruce." Alfred continued, placing the tray gently on the console. "If Gotham's institutions could be trusted to stand on their own, they could bring justice to Cobblepot and the rest, and you might be able to take the occasional night off."
Finally broken from his trance, Bruce leaned back on his chair and caught his butler's gaze. "Alf, how many times have I got to tell you. You don't have to call me 'Master Bruce!'"
Alfred raised an eyebrow, unflinching.
"And how many times have I told you, sir, that if I start calling you Bruce, the entire fragile illusion of this arrangement will collapse? You have been Master Bruce to me since you were a baby, I don't intend on changing that now."
Bruce huffed, the closest thing to a laugh he ever gave. He turned back to the flickering footage of Dent, pausing it on the frame where Harvey stood with his fist in the air, fire in his eyes.
"He believes it, Alfred." Bruce said. "Every word. We've seen hundreds of men like Dent be bought out and corrupted, somethings telling me he's different."
"That would make him a very rare breed indeed." Alfred replied. He stepped closer. "The question, I suppose, is whether Gotham will believe in him long enough to let him make a difference."
Bruce removed his glasses and set them down gently on the console, leaning forward.
"If he wins...if he can clean out the corruption in the courts, give people faith in the system again, then maybe this city won't need a man in a mask. Maybe it can stand on its own."
There was a beat of silence. Alfred folded his hands behind his back.
"I take it, then, you intend to assist his campaign?"
Bruce smiled. "How do you always read my mind, Alf?"
"It's my superpower sir."
"I know you're joking, but I'm starting to believe you. I want to make a donation to the Harvey Dent campaign fund. Better yet, let's try and get an invite to any gala dinners, Dent will be attending and I can make the donation in person."
Alfred pursed his lips, suppressing a smile.
"Ah. So the reclusive billionaire intends to walk amongst the mortals again. I shall alert the press to prepare themselves for the shock."
Bruce shot him a dry look. "Quietly, Alfred. The fewer headlines, the better. This isn’t about Bruce Wayne. It's about Harvey Dent."
Their conversation was interrupted by an alarm flashing on his monitor. He turned in his chair. Far off, through the thin mouth of the cave high above the cliffs, a beam of white light split the night sky. Its edge wavered against the low clouds - a single, stark silhouette cut into the darkness.
The Bat-Signal.
"Seems Gotham has other plans for your evening." Alfred said dryly, already lifting up the undrunk coffee and placing it back on the tray.
Bruce rose, all traces of weariness gone now, a subtle electricity moving through him like a switch had been thrown. He pulled off the glasses, set them down gently beside the keyboard, and crossed the stone floor toward the armor vault.
"Have the car ready." he said, his demeanour already shifting.
"Already warming the engine, sir." Alfred replied.
Moments later, the roar of the Batmobile tore out of the cave mouth and into the night, heading for the signal blazing above the Gotham skyline.
The Narrows were never quiet, even at this time of night.
The streetlights here buzzed and flickered, casting long sickly-yellow shadows across cracked pavement and rusted fire escapes. A freight train groaned somewhere in the distance, drowned beneath the pulse of bass leaking from a club two blocks away.
Sixteen year old Max Cole sat on the back steps of an abandoned laundromat, knees tucked to his chest, watching the rain trace crooked lines down the brick opposite. His hoodie was too thin for the cold, his sneakers worn until there were holes in the sole. A paper bag with two bruised apples and a can of beans sat beside him. Dinner for the week, if it came to that.
He didn't hear the footsteps until a voice cut through the hiss of the rain.
"You're Max, right? Benny's cousin?"
Max looked up fast. A man in a black leather jacket stood at the edge of the alley, collar turned up, a cigarette glowing like a small orange eye in the darkness. His grin showed too many gold teeth. Behind him loomed two others, both bigger and bulkier than the small man in front.
"Y-yeah." Max said cautiously. "Why? Who's askin'?"
The man flicked the cigarette into a puddle and stepped closer. "Benny says you're quick. Says you don't talk too much. We like that. You want to make some real money, kid?"
Max blinked. His stomach twisted, part hunger and part a feeling of danger. "Doing what?"
The man smiled wider.
"Running errands. That's all. Pickups, drop-offs. Nothing you can't handle. Easy money."
Max hesitated. He thought of the empty fridge, of the eviction notice taped to the front of his building. He thought of his mom, gone two winters ago, and the social worker who'd promised to 'check in' but never did.
"Who-who for?" he asked finally.
The man's grin thinned, like a knife.
"Mr. Cobblepot."
Max swallowed. He didn't know much about the name, just that people didn't say it loud, and that when they did, they didn't smile. But he nodded.
"Atta boy." the man said, clapping him on the shoulder. "First run's tomorrow night. Don't be late." He tossed a business card onto Max's lap. "Oh and uh, call this a sign-on bonus. Get yourself some new clothes and a place to stay for a few nights, kid." He reached into his wallet and threw a few hundred dollar bills at him.
The three men vanished back into the rain-soaked dark, leaving only the faint smell of smoke and the sound of water dripping from the rusted awning overhead. Max sat there for a long while, the cold biting through his hoodie, the city humming all around him. For a long time he just held the money, counting it over and over again. He pulled the hood over his head, picked up the paper bag, and walked into the night.
High above the city, the Bat-Signal cut through the clouds like a scar.
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