Batman Legacy: Book One
Copyright© 2025 by Uruks
Chapter 16: Broken Halves
Gotham General Hospital – Intensive Care Unit
The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly above the hospital bed, casting a sterile glow across the white sheets soaked in shadow. The room smelled of antiseptic and burned skin. Machines beeped steadily, but the heart that beat behind them was far from steady.
Harvey Dent lay half-shrouded in darkness.
The left side of his face was bandaged, hidden beneath gauze and medical foam. What little of it was visible looked like melted wax—flesh warped by acid, the skin raw and pink where it wasn’t scorched black. The right side of his face, still handsome and untouched, looked as if it belonged to another man.
His eyes were closed, lips parted slightly in shallow breaths. A faint tremor passed through his right hand, fingers twitching.
Selina sat beside him, her gloved hand resting over his. She hadn’t left the hospital since it happened.
Her short hair was unkempt, her mascara smudged. She’d long since peeled off her usual armor—the leather, the heels, the purring voice—and now sat in civilian clothes that felt too big, like borrowed confidence.
“The doctors say you’re stable,” she murmured gently, searching his vacant eyes for any flicker of response. “The medication should ease the pain ... and they want to try grafts, if you feel ready for it.”
His eye opened slightly, but Harvey didn’t answer. He just stared at the wall, into some place far away.
Selina’s chest tightened, but she forced a small, steady smile. “You don’t have to decide right now. Just ... let yourself breathe. I’ll be here.”
He drew in a ragged breath and closed his eyes again.
Selina tried to keep it together. She didn’t want this to be about her. But the silence, the smell, the sight of him—it was too much. A quiet sob escaped her before she could swallow it down.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, choking on the words. “I’m so sorry this happened to you, Harvey.”
He didn’t move.
“You didn’t deserve this. Any of it. I should’ve been there. I should’ve done something.”
Still nothing.
She looked at him—at what was left of him—and her heart clenched. She had known darkness, grown up in it, bathed in it. But this wasn’t just darkness. This was absence. A hollow where warmth used to live.
Then, he stirred.
His right eye fluttered open. The blue iris darted around the room before settling on her. For a moment, there was no recognition. Then ... pain.
“Selina,” he rasped, his voice raw and strained, like a man dragging himself out of a grave.
She leaned closer, tears brimming. “I’m here.”
He tried to sit up. His body protested, but rage pushed him upright. His breathing grew ragged.
“They should’ve let me die,” he growled.
Selina blinked. “What?”
He looked at her now—through her.
“Rachel’s dead,” he said, bitterly. “She’s dead. And I’m still here. My body screaming in pain every second of the day.”
Selina took his hand again, but he yanked it away.
“Harvey—”
“She believed in people,” he spat. “In Gotham. In me. And she got burned alive for it.” His gaze turned to the coin resting on the side table—scratched, scorched, and blackened on one side.
He picked it up and stared at it with quiet, religious reverence.
“She always said it landed on heads. Every time. And when it finally didn’t...”
He flipped the coin.
Tink.
It landed in his palm.
Tails.
He stared at it like it was scripture.
“I trusted fate,” he muttered. “Now I know what it really means. It’s not about fairness. Or chance. It’s just pain. That’s all it ever was.”
Selina shook her head, her voice cracking. “Harvey, you can’t ... don’t let this destroy you.”
He looked at her with an expression so hollow it frightened her.
“It already has.”
She felt her throat tighten.
“You’re a kind man. You fought for something better. You can still keep fighting for that better future ... for yourself and for Gotham.”
“There is no better future, Selina,” he said coldly. “At some point, we all have to stop pretending that people actually deserve a world like that.”
She tried again, desperate. “Don’t do this to yourself. Please. Let me help.”
“Help?” he scoffed. “You think I don’t know who you are, Selina? What you are?”
Selina stiffened.
“I used to wonder why you always looked away when we talked about him. About Batman. I thought it was embarrassment given how fascinated you were with him. But now...” His voice hardened. “I think it’s something worse. You really are in love with him, aren’t you? I saw the way you looked at him on the yacht that night.”
His voice rose in anger as he glared at her. “You think I can’t tell when you’re thinking about another man?! Christ, I even noticed you casting longing glances at Bruce, for God’s sakes!”
“I care about you,” she whispered.
“Then stop lying,” he snapped. “You’re not here for me. You’re here for penance.”
Silence stretched between them like a blade. Selina sat frozen in the chair, Harvey’s words echoing in the sterile quiet. She wanted to dismiss them as rage, as pain twisting the truth—but she couldn’t. The guilt gnawed at her. She had never been with Batman, not in body, yet she knew Harvey wasn’t wrong. Somewhere along the way, she had given that shadowed man in the mask a piece of her heart, a piece she could never fully reclaim. And now Harvey, broken and burning before her, was the one paying the price for it.
But that didn’t make her feelings for Harvey meaningless.
She stood slowly. “You’re wrong,” she said, her voice faint but firm. “Whatever girlish crush I may have had for Batman, or even for Bruce, you’re the man I chose to be with. I loved you. I still do.”
She leaned down and kissed his unscarred cheek.
Harvey turned away, muttering to himself. “A woman like you couldn’t love a face like this even if you tried. You might as well love a corpse.”
Unable to stand it any longer, Selina turned away, stifling a sob.
“Your crush is a failed hero,” continued Harvey, sounding less like a man and more like a verdict. “You know that, right? A charlatan who fills people with hope only to reveal that hope to be a dying flame. He couldn’t save Rachel. Couldn’t save me. He can’t save anyone from what’s coming.”
Beside him, Selina tried unsuccessfully to dry her tears away.”
He turned the coin slowly in his palm, his thumb brushing over its surface. The smooth side gleamed beneath the hospital lights, polished and pure, while the blackened side was warped and pitted, swallowing the glow like a wound that would never heal. Harvey stared at it for a long moment, as though the coin itself might answer him.
He flipped the coin again.
Tink.
Heads.
Joker’s Lair – Abandoned Cannery – Night
The clink of metal echoed through the gutted interior of the derelict ice factory. Broken conveyor belts, shattered refrigeration units, and rusted hooks swayed from the ceiling like forgotten bones. Flickering overhead lights buzzed with erratic sparks.
The room reeked of brine and cold metal. Civilians huddled together, unbound and ungagged, yet trapped: the iron door was bolted tight, the reinforced glass between them and the Joker impenetrable. One man slammed his fists against the door, voice cracking with panic. A young woman pressed her palms to the glass, scraping and pounding, fingers stinging against the unyielding surface.
Behind it, the Joker grinned, every twitch of his lips a cruel reminder of their helplessness. Hearts pounded, breaths came in ragged gasps, and each second stretched into an eternity of terror.
They trembled as he leaned in closer, grinning wildly.
Dressed in his purple suit and green vest, Joker sauntered down the aisle in front of the captives like a stage performer about to debut a Broadway act. He twirled a long syringe in one gloved hand, his face radiant with manic glee as he turned on the speaker system. The hostages flinched when his shrill voice came booming through the speakers.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” he exclaimed, throwing his arms out like a ringmaster. “Thank you for volunteering for this historic trial run. Now, I know what you’re thinking: ‘Why me, Mr. Joker? I pay my taxes. I mind my own business.’ Well, here’s the thing—”
He stopped suddenly and bent down, focusing on a middle-aged man in a business suit whose tears streamed silently.
“Normal is boring.”
The man whimpered behind the glass.
Joker stood again and faced the rest. “Do you know what the worst part of chemicals is? Nobody ever reads the warning labels! But not me. See, I used to work around this stuff—back in the day. Before the big dip in the acid jacuzzi, of course.”
He spun, sweeping a manic arm toward the row of chemical canisters lined against the wall, each rigged with hoses and crude spray valves. The captives hadn’t even noticed—until a hiss split the air and a sickly green vapor began curling upward, shimmering like poison in slow motion.
“Everyone said I wouldn’t amount to anything. But look at me now! I’m a pioneer! The Picasso of pain! The Mozart of mayhem!”
One of his thugs—young, jittery, mask slipping down his chin—stepped forward, hesitation etched in every twitch. “Boss ... are we really gonna test it on these folks?”
Joker’s smile snapped shut.
He turned slowly, eyes burning into the thug’s very soul. “Test it?” he repeated, voice low, razor-sharp. “TEST IT?”
In a blur, he lunged.
The thug yelped, stumbling back, but Joker was already on him, sliding a knife from his sleeve and pressing the cold edge to the side of his face. He leaned in, voice a venomous whisper, “You don’t test art. You reveal it.”
The thug’s stomach churned; sweat ran down his temple, his fingers trembled so violently they could barely grip the edge of his jacket. He wanted to scream, wanted to run, but the knife held him frozen, a statue of terror.
Then, just as abruptly, he released the man, smoothing his jacket with a casual pat-pat, as if nothing had happened.
“But I get it. You’re new,” he murmured, spinning on his heel with a flourish. “You’ll learn.”
He strode back to the window where the captives watched in terror, clapping his hands twice like a conductor ready to begin the symphony.
A few loyal henchmen rolled out a massive nozzle rig, linked to more canisters behind the Joker. They clipped the hoses to panels along the reinforced glass, and almost instantly, green gas hissed into the room, seeping into every corner. The captives scrambled, pressing themselves against walls, holding their breath, screaming—but it was everywhere at once, curling over heads and around trembling bodies. Panic swallowed them, and resistance lasted only seconds.
“Now, this little cocktail is my personal recipe,” Joker said. “Picked up the inspiration at Ace Chemicals. You remember that place, right? It gave me a new face—so I thought it only fair to share the joy!”
They coughed violently at first, eyes watering, heads jerking in confusion. And then it began.
The first to go was a young woman in scrubs. Her head tilted back. A guttural, wet laugh erupted from her throat. Her eyes bulged. Her lips cracked open into a grin that kept stretching ... and stretching ... until it split the corners of her cheeks.
A man near the door clawed at the iron with desperate fingers, nails shredding against the metal. Blood smeared the hinges and pooled beneath his hands as he howled. The green haze curled around him, and despite the panic, a horrific laugh tore from his chest, mixing terror and exhilaration in a single, twisted note. His grin stretched wider and wider, twisting his face into something unrecognizable, until finally his body went limp, fingers still pressed to the door, the frozen grin etched in horror and madness.
One by one, the others followed. Laughter—shrieking, tortured, unnatural—filled the factory. It echoed like a chorus of demons, bouncing off the walls and metal beams. Their bodies twisted and convulsed, tears streaming down their cheeks, until the spasms stilled and they slumped over, grinning forever.
One henchman covered his mouth, horrified. “Jesus...”
Another, older thug—face painted like a clown—watched in reverent awe, eyes wide as if seeing a god descend.
Joker stood before the glass, arms wide, chest heaving with manic energy.
“Behold!” he cried. “Isn’t it beautiful? I call it Smilex. Or maybe Joker Juice. Still workshopping the name. But the point is ... it sends a message. It shows people that they can still smile through the agony ... whether they want to or not.”
He turned, sweeping his gaze across his crew.
“Falcone ruled with fear. Hill ruled with corruption. But me? I rule with style.”
He stepped toward the frightened henchman, hand landing on his shoulder. “Some of you are scared. That’s okay. Fear keeps you sharp. But those who follow me...” He pivoted toward the clown-painted thug, now kneeling in awe. “You get to laugh when the city burns.”
Joker began pacing, each step deliberate, a predator circling prey. “This,” he muttered, eyes gleaming. “Was just the demo reel. The real show’s coming—the kind you write history books about.”
He chuckled low, a sound that crawled along the walls. “No ... no, not books. Children’s songs. Little lullabies about what happens when the lights go out and the clowns come marching in.”
He paused, finger tracing a crude map of Gotham etched into a table nearby, stopping at a point near the waterfront. He grinned, the kind of grin that promised chaos.
“Let’s see how Bats likes the punchline.”
Batcave – Late Night
The cavern was quiet, save for the rhythmic hum of the Batcomputer and the distant dripping of subterranean water echoing in the darkness. Shadows danced along stone walls, stretching like memories that refused to fade.
Batman stood at the center of it all, silent, still, staring at the photo on the screen — a picture of Rachel Dawes. Her smile was soft, natural, the kind she rarely gave anyone but him.
Bruce didn’t blink. His cowl sat on the console beside him, and for a moment, it was just the man beneath the mask. Bruised. Haunted.
“I should have saved her,” he muttered under his breath. “I should’ve been faster. Smarter.”
From behind, Alfred approached, footsteps soft on the stone floor.
“You did all you could, Master Wayne,” the butler said gently, his voice thick with sorrow. “Miss Dawes understood the danger. And still, she believed in you ... even as it came to this. I’d wager that she died with no regrets.”
Bruce didn’t turn. His hands were balled into fists at his sides.
“She believed Harvey was the hope of this city,” he said bitterly. “Now look at him. Scarred. Lost. Maybe broken.”
“You’re not wrong,” Alfred admitted, voice low. “But hope doesn’t die in one night. And it doesn’t rest on one man’s shoulders alone. Harvey’s still alive. That means there’s still a chance.”
Bruce exhaled, shakily. “I want to face him. Apologize. Tell him I’m sorry for failing him ... for failing her. But I can’t. Not until Joker’s stopped. I’m not strong enough.”
Alfred’s gaze softened. “You’re stronger than you think, sir. You prove that every night you go out there.”
Silence hung between them.
Then the console beeped.
“Sir,” Alfred said, stepping forward, “The GCPD just forwarded the autopsies of those bodies found near the waterfront. The ones with the ... disturbing expressions.”
Bruce moved toward the screen. Images flashed across it — corpses with grotesque, frozen grins, their eyes bulging in death, lips split from unnatural laughter.
His jaw clenched.
“Joker’s got a new toy,” Batman growled, fists cracking. “Gas ... some kind of neurotoxin. All these dead citizens tell me one thing. He’s perfecting it ... making it ready for his big finish.”
Alfred tapped a few keys. “Toxicology confirms an engineered compound — a neurotoxin mixed with a hallucinogen. Causes extreme euphoria and muscle spasms. Victims laugh themselves to death.”
Bruce studied the data, fingers flying across the interface.
“Carbonyl chloride mixed with traces of phosgene and a stabilized derivative of nitrogen mustard ... with a catalytic additive of C₂H₅NO₂ to increase volatility,” Bruce muttered, scanning the files. “He’s engineered a nerve agent designed to incapacitate quickly and spread efficiently. Joker’s not improvising—he’s calculated every molecule.”
Bruce paused for a moment as a certain realization sunk in.
I’ve seen a formula like this before ... back at Ace Chemicals,” he continued. “He’s drawing on the same compounds he fell into, but it’s refined ... optimized. He’s preparing for something catastrophic.”
A moment later, Bruce tapped a secure line on the screen.
“Lucius,” he said when the call connected.
Lucius Fox appeared, his dark skin catching the dim glow of his monitors, dark circles under his eyes and a perpetually rumpled suit betraying nights spent working for Gotham. “Bruce. You got something?”
“I need your help,” Bruce said, his tone clipped, precise. “Joker’s created a nerve agent—a gas that kills by overstimulating the brain. I need a counteragent. Fast.”
Fox rubbed at his temples, already pulling up files, his mind racing through formulas and lab protocols. “Send me what you’ve got. I’ll get to work.”
“I’ll meet you at the lab in an hour.”
Fox nodded, voice firm despite the exhaustion. “We’ll stop him, Bruce. Before anyone else dies.”
As the call ended, Bruce grabbed his cowl and slid it back on. The man was gone again, replaced by the dark legend forged in grief and fire.
He turned to Alfred, voice steady, controlled. “No more surprises. Whatever Joker’s planning, we’ll be ready.”
Alfred gave a tight nod, the faintest tremor betraying his worry. “Good luck, sir.”
Batman vanished into the shadows without another word, the cape swirling like a storm behind him.
And deep in the cave, the silent photo of Rachel Dawes remained—her sweet smile frozen in time, a memory that would never fade, and a promise that Gotham might still have a chance.
Dusk – Selina’s apartment, overlooking Gotham’s east side.
Selina stood on the balcony in her night gown, the air cool and tinged with the last amber glow of sunset. Below, the streets twisted and shimmered, a restless network of lights and shadow stretching out as day surrendered to night. She thought of Harvey, hollowed and broken, of Rachel, gone, and a pang of bitter grief cut through her chest. Yes, she could mourn Rachel Dawes ... even though the woman had taken what she coveted most.
Shadows lengthened across the city, quiet now but for the distant hum of traffic and sirens—a symphony of a metropolis teetering on chaos. Selina drew a slow, steadying breath. Her face hardened into resolve. The choice was made. She turned back into her apartment, shutting the door against the encroaching night.
With deliberate movements, she stripped away her casual guise, revealing the lean strength beneath as she left her clothes on the floor and walked naked across the tiles.
From a hidden compartment, she pulled out the black folds of her Catwoman suit. Slick leather, custom-fitted, comforting in its precision.