Room 38

Edward Nigma walked down the sidewalk toward his apartment building, twirling his cane every now and then. He didn't really need a cane, but it was something he'd gotten used to carrying around over his years of crime, and it came in handy when walking Gotham's streets at night. Who needs Batman, or the police for that matter, when you have a good, sturdy cane, and the ability to thwack people over the head with it better than any baseball player. Not that baseball players thwack people over the head or anything, the term just seemed to fit better than anything else Edward could come up with.

Here it was, two blocks down from the Gotham Bank, the apartment building where he lived. Whistling, Edward opened the door and headed inside, up the flight of stairs, to his apartment; number 38. Pulling his key out of his jacket pocket, he quickly unlocked the door and let himself in. Still whistling, he placed his cane in the otherwise empty umbrella stand - umbrellas were just too Penguin for him to be seen in public with them - and hung up his jacket on it's hook, then turned around and looked at the room.

He stopped whistling immediately. Things had been moved. Three glasses had been stacked inside each other on his coffee table, now they were separated and spread out. His newspaper - the one with the unfinished crossword puzzle - was nowhere to be seen, and it had been by the glasses. And his window was open. Edward frowned. He distinctly remembered closing that window before he left, and now it was as open as could be. He strode over to the window and stared at the glass, one hand resting itself on his hip and the other bringing itself up to rub his chin thoughtfully.

"I'm sure I shut you before I left," he muttered, staring hard into the confused eyes of his reflection in the window. Suddenly he heard a faint and vaguely familiar noise coming from behind. Plink! thump. All at once he remembered what the sound meant, and a chill went up his spine. "Can't possibly be," he began, turning around slowly. And then the sound again; Plink! thump. A flash of silver. And a dark familiar voice spoke.

"Hello Edward."

Edward felt his feet go numb, and he couldn't bring himself to move. "Harvey?" he asked. "Is that you? But it can't be, you're supposed to be dead."

"Oh," replied the voice, "I assure you, Harvey Dent is quite dead. I suppose you're confused, so I'll introduce myself. My name is Harry."

The owner of the voice stepped forward into the dim light that was coming from the open window. He was tall and thin, but built. He was wearing a suit of black and white, identical to Two-Face's, but this wasn't Two-Face. He was too young. This boy must have been about twenty, but he was the exact image of Harvey Dent. And the left side of his face was burned and mangled and grey, fit into a dark, sinister look, while the other side of his face was cool and clever, and as handsome as the other was disturbing.

"Harry?" echoed Edward, blinking. "I've never seen you before." Suddenly Edward's face turned from wonder to frustration, and he folded his arms over his chest. "Why are you in my apartment?" he demanded. "How did you get in?"

"The window, as much as you'd hate to admit it, was wide open."

"I would know if I had left my window open," Edward replied defiantly. "I wouldn't forget something like that."

"Still struggling with that case of OCD, eh Edward? I thought you were over that."

"I - I am," Edward said, half to Harry, half to himself. "Now, tell me how you got in my house, and why you're here. I don't remember inviting you."

"The thugs opened the window," Harry said, and Edward felt someone grab on to him from both sides with a grip like a vice. He couldn't move. "As for why I'm here," Harry began, striding over, "well, let's say the trip is strongly based on justice, with a bit of revenge."

Harry peered at Edward, looking him straight in his confused and angry eyes. He glared - an expression which appeared much darker on the left side of his face than his right - and held his coin in front of Edward's nose so he could see the scratched out side that represented "bad heads".

"You just hit a stroke of bad luck," he growled. Then he straightened up and gestured for the men holding Edward down to follow him as he headed out the door. Edward looked around the room for something that would help him get out of this situation, but could see nothing. He couldn't move, the grip on his arms tightening every passing second. There was nowhere to run.