#paradoxbatmd

"Batman doesn't use guns." He bristled at the sight of them, scowling behind the cowl as his hand went to his hip-- ready with a defense strategy if need be. Whatever had happened in the latest fight against Luthor had resulted in this twisted madness.

He wasn't meant to be here. This world felt like a dark mirror of his own. Getting home would be difficult-- moreso if he'd run into another variant of himself with villainous intent. His knees bent, prepared to spring away if things went south.

As thanks, apparently, for a job well done - and not just murdering him at the outset like Two-Face had told him he would, there's an old envelope sitting somewhere on a tray table.

Harvey isn't delusional enough to think Thomas Wayne needs a single red cent out of his pocket, and the weird intersections of worlds, one into another, are typically very temporary. He doesn't belong here. There's already a Harvey Dent, and he barely recognizes him. The Gilda here is not like his Gilda. So many things are so vastly different that he may as well know no one at all.

Bruce colored the world around him more than he realized.

So he leaves behind something ephemeral, then. Caught at just the right time. A little Polaroid photo in an old envelope of Bruce, Leslie, and at least some of Harvey Dent (he's taking a snowball to the face in this one) having a snowball fight.

Bruce wasn't alone here. It wasn't always easy or fun, and Bruce wasn't always well-behaved and docile, but even losing his parents - even in Gotham - even in a world that would eventually pit the city and his friends against him - someone was there with him, encouraging him. Making sure he could still be a kid when he was ready to.

The date on the back is smudged. Underneath, it just says :

B - 3 :)

Despite his current state, he flips his coin. Clean heads.

"Better not get too loaded - but if you wanted to kill me, I'm sure you'd have done it by now."

Wouldn't that be easier? For both of them? Thomas Wayne wouldn't mince words - he'd kill him if he wanted to. He wouldn't go about it covertly.

"I've been in this position more than once - I, uh, used to go to a doctor in what they call 'Crime Alley' back in my --- neighborhood."

Universe, neighborhood, dimension, neck of the woods. It was easier to digest if he didn't try to figure it all out. The present circumstances were all that really existed anyway.

"Leslie Thompkins. She stitched me up more times than I want to admit. She took care of ---"

Bruce and Harvey. More Harvey than Bruce, really. Still, she was there when anyone needed her.

"--- she's a good person. She took care of us. Wonder if she's here."

He needed some scar tissue removed. That's all. It was hard to work with the scarring, but he doesn't have much choice in the matter.

"Oh, don't make promises you can't keep."

In a way, it's what Two-Face has always wanted. They're on the same level. They're killers. The small bones in his fingers are probably snapping, and he can barely feel it - the nerves in that hand are barely there, too damaged from trying to scrape the acid from his eyes to function properly anymore.

"I like you. You know what justice really is. An eye for an eye - none of that truth, justice, and the American way bullshit. No, sir."

It's thrilling. It's - awe-inspiring. A Batman without the hangups!

...

There's always a trade-off, isn't there?

"Harvey would have resented you something awful, but me? I get it. No back-and-forth on whether a guy like Moroni needs to be shot in the head. No code to keep you from killing the senior home serial killer -"

He looks almost thoughtful for a moment, using his second gun very unwisely to scratch an itch.

"- but you're really not him. We used to be friends."

More than he even knows. Closer than he can imagine.