THE KILLING JOKE

Part 12: Two Sides Of The Coin

The pocket watch in the cage clinked and ticked relentlessly, its second hand moving closer to the inevitable. Gordon, Bullock, and Harvey Dent stood trapped inside, the steel bars closing them off from any escape. The cold, damp floor beneath them smelled of oil and gasoline, adding to the suffocating tension.

Harvey's heart pounded as he glanced at the watch. Only a few minutes left. His mind raced, but there was no way out—no way to stop the explosion that would tear through the warehouse. He could feel the sweat dripping down his face, mixing with the fear clawing at his chest.

"Dammit," Bullock cursed, pacing in the cramped space. "We've got minutes before this place goes up. We have to do something."

"There's nothing we can do," Gordon said quietly, his voice strained. He gripped the bars of the cage, his knuckles white. "He's got us right where he wants us."

Harvey couldn't accept that. He wasn't going to die in some trap, not at the hands of that madman. He was supposed to be Gotham's hope, the one fighting for justice. He wasn't going to end up as just another victim.

"I'll break this door down with my bare hands if I have to," Harvey growled, grabbing the bars and shaking them violently. "We're not dying here. Not like this."

But as he yanked at the bars, his foot slipped. The floor was slick with something—oil? Gasoline? He lost his balance, stumbling forward, and his right side smashed hard into the ground. His hand and the right side of his face landed in the puddle of gasoline, soaking him.

"Harvey!" Gordon rushed to help him up, but it was too late. Harvey's right side was drenched in the foul-smelling liquid. He recoiled in disgust, wiping his face, but the gasoline clung to his skin and clothes.

"Great," Harvey muttered bitterly, spitting out the taste of the fuel. "Just what I needed."

The pocket watch ticked louder in the silence that followed, and the realization of how little time they had left hit them hard. Gordon's eyes darted to the watch, then to the cage door. They were running out of time.

"We're done for," Bullock muttered under his breath. "There's no way out of this."

But just as hope seemed to drain from the room, a sound came from above. It was faint at first, like the whisper of a breeze through the rafters. But then it grew louder—a low, rhythmic whoosh that echoed through the warehouse. The three men looked up in confusion.

"What the hell is that?" Bullock asked, squinting toward the shadows above them.

Suddenly, the ceiling erupted with a crash, and through the falling debris came a figure, cloaked in darkness, descending from the rafters with a swift, silent grace. The dark figure landed in front of the cage with a thud, standing tall and imposing. His cape billowed behind him like the wings of a bat, and his armor gleamed faintly in the dim light of the warehouse.

The man—if he even was a man—turned his head slightly, the white slits of his eyes narrowing beneath the dark cowl. He moved with precision, examining the cage as if he had already calculated every possible way to break it open.

"Who the hell is that?" Bullock asked, his voice low and incredulous.

"I have no idea," Gordon replied, just as stunned. "But whoever he is, he's here to help."

Without a word, the dark figure—Batman, though none of them knew his name yet—reached for his belt and produced a small, sleek device. In one fluid motion, he fired a grappling hook at the cage door, the metal claws digging into the steel bars. With a quick pull, the door was ripped off its hinges, crashing to the floor with a deafening clang.

Batman stepped inside, his movements swift and methodical. He grabbed Gordon and Bullock by their collars, dragging them out of the cage with ease, even as the pocket watch's ticking grew faster, signaling the impending explosion.

"Move!" Batman's voice was low and commanding, muffled beneath the mask. "Get out of here, now."

Harvey staggered to his feet, still trying to wipe the gasoline from his face, his eyes wide with disbelief at the figure before him. "Who—what—"

"Now!" Batman barked, grabbing Harvey by the arm and pulling him toward the exit.

They bolted for the door as the last few seconds ticked away. The warehouse groaned, the sound of creaking metal growing louder as the bomb neared detonation. They were almost at the exit when the blast ripped through the building.

The explosion erupted with a deafening roar, sending a wave of heat and fire tearing through the warehouse. The ground shook, and debris rained down as the walls buckled and crumbled under the force of the blast.

Batman moved quickly, pushing Gordon and Bullock out of the way and shielding them with his cape as the explosion rippled through the air. They tumbled to safety, away from the worst of the blast, but Harvey wasn't as lucky.

The flames roared behind him, and just as he reached the exit, the fire licked at his gasoline-soaked clothes. There was a searing heat, and suddenly, the right side of his body was engulfed in flames. He screamed in agony, his hands instinctively trying to smother the fire, but it was too late. The flames clung to his skin, melting the flesh on the right side of his face.

Gordon and Bullock turned in horror, watching helplessly as Harvey collapsed to the ground, his face a charred, blistered mess. Batman rushed to him, pulling him to safety just as the rest of the warehouse collapsed in on itself, the fire swallowing the building whole.

The explosion rocked the docks, sending a column of smoke and fire into the night sky. The sound echoed through Gotham, a reminder that chaos still ruled the streets.

Outside the warehouse, Gordon and Bullock stumbled to their feet, coughing and covered in ash. They looked around, dazed and bruised, but alive. The mysterious figure—Batman—stood over them, his cape billowing in the night air, the fire reflecting off his black armor.

For a long moment, no one said anything. Gordon's mind raced as he stared at the man who had just saved them. He had no idea who he was, but he knew one thing for certain—without him, they'd all be dead.

Bullock, still catching his breath, looked at Batman with a mixture of disbelief and awe. "Who... who the hell are you?"

Batman's expression was unreadable beneath the cowl, but his eyes narrowed slightly. He didn't answer. Instead, he turned and walked over to where Harvey lay on the ground, unconscious and badly burned.

Gordon rushed to Harvey's side, his heart sinking as he saw the damage. The right side of Harvey's face was hideously scarred, the skin burned away, revealing raw, blackened flesh beneath. It was a sight that made Gordon's stomach churn.

"Harvey..." Gordon whispered, kneeling beside him. "Oh, God..."

Batman knelt beside Harvey, checking his pulse. "He's alive," he said quietly. "But he needs help. Now."

Gordon nodded numbly, still in shock from the explosion and the sight of his friend's terrible injuries. "We'll get him to the hospital."

Batman stood up, glancing back at Gordon and Bullock one last time. "The Joker is still out there," he said, his voice low and cold. "This isn't over."

Before Gordon could ask anything else, Batman vanished into the night, disappearing as quickly as he had arrived.

Gordon watched the shadows, still trying to process what had just happened. A vigilante, dressed like a bat, had saved their lives. The Joker had escaped, and now Harvey Dent—the man who had once been Gotham's hope—was horribly disfigured.

As the sound of sirens grew louder in the distance, Gordon looked down at Harvey, feeling the weight of the night's events press down on him.

Gotham was changing.

And so were its heroes.